“it’s
sweet of you. what happened? too much to reign in?
“I remember a younger you. so long
ago. it was easier then.
“too much becomes routine. our chase for alpha. our haunt inside. so invisible these days, I told you it would get harder, something trying to kill you—some type of phantom ink.”
upon a daffodil aside a sunflower near a jamesia—those palms as softer or moisturized so little to pamper. a true empath. a terrific escape artist. such vertigo such a dear abrasion trying to feel grown, hurt a bit. (I dip lower, emotion in skies, or looking as to realize truer you.) so tender its blur, so familiar now, so delicate such unclear needs. so saved so depersonalized while able to love unevenly. a macaw in its cage, it repeats what it hears, I told it, “I love you.”
“some snare we met somewhat ungifted
or re-strategized.
“a bit blasé about love a bit familiar with railways a bit tortured by street signs.”
sublime is difficult, something like good satire, or better, like becoming more surgical. it seems dusty in apartments. there is more to do. or a house has an echo. I bought a lovebird or a robin but it sang about feelings. so long ago. such innocence. oh why to believe so willingly!
“it was easier as believing in some
scar as a trophy. beliefs become damp. a phoenix is always dying.
“you became a puppet a marionette
with many puppeteers. your body was a map, I’d follow lines, but actuality
never spoke to you.”
