What I thought…
baby, you got it bad. Sit here, by me. Try not to feel so disorderly. Settle your eyes on some surface. Try and peel back the peculiarities and refine the glitches upon the comfort of these my arms, the wet-stone to the incumbent thoughts that I know give you that grimace. You are so essential. That you don’t know it, I am thankful. for what would this embrace be, if you absorbed the potency I extract from your presence? I’d be fallen again, shuddering to acknowledge myself, the kick-board to your oscillating acceptance of yourself. And then my hold would weaken, my arms drying up and coiling, leaving you again to sit upon that moonlit porch, silent in that deafening stillness, company to the slivered glare echoing back from unknown eyes. You who took me home when I became a child of god. Thank you. You who saw the circus of my mind. We don’t live in empty palaces, ash painting worn wood grey. We don’t eat the crumbs of charity. We build towers from the unknown properties of grass and cry when the reeds begin to sing our sentience. A shaman stole a key to my reduction when he tried to kiss me, in homage to my innocence. I’ll never fucking forgive that blackbird and all his misery. He summoned sweetness and demanded wine. That is all that’s left of him.If you touch me and my limbs go slack, silken lengths of flesh between your fingers, and you braid me back into one, folding my extension into the cupped hand of a creator, then no word will convey, in all the laughable solemnity of the cosmos, what meaning you’ve bestowed on me. I’ve crossed this courtyard, exposing as it is to see your reflection warped and dilated, but the dama del noche rewards me by being the reminder of this pale mosaic moment.
