I
used to run from self, this futile chase, abased at our core; the future was
hectic, filled with memories—a psych and her inclinations; to surrender
checkmates, this heightened sensitivity, as one hyper for normalcy. We mourn
for patience, gorging gummy bears—and grape wine. I wanted life, affixed to
trauma, therewith, your smile. I know I drift, but art is vision, to stir it in
music; to have for spaces, eyes glowing in majesty, this esoteric dream. Your
eyes were moist, as red around the rims, to suffer my gaze. I used to run from
self, to meet me in you—such particles of death; and I used to lie to self, to
pretend for perfect, where psychs invaded my dream; but I remembered love, even
its heartache, as attached to sensations; to find and leave, this inner intimacy,
for pages flipped through violence;—but not as physical, but rather, as
mental—this season of introjects; to have this touch, the measure of our
distance, writhing in eczema, as nerves rough, stressed and abandoned. I met
you in me, this bay of wolves, forcing to surface this grief; whereat, to
wrestle, a fleet of metaphors, chasing a mirage; this inner illusion, founded
in realities, but dearly delusional; wherewith, confliction, an inner turmoil,
and sniffling and sneezing. I used to run from self, until it all caught up—the
demons and screaming and tears and fusions. I used to die to self, as one dying
to live, where living was an anomaly! It’s more a vacuum, this station of
frets, this inner Batman; as featured in wonders, this Lucky Star charm, abandoned to stress and scars. It mustn’t be
life, to have you as a moment, that grieved in its essence; wherewith, are
bars, this inner vexation, to wrestle bleeding thoughts. It’s more to find you,
this bedroom ritual, as alone in meditation; to touch for chi, as looming in
light—this ancient technique; where love is granted, albeit, aloof, as personal
as goosebumps.
