a
smaller shoebox, assorted letters, musing deeply, feeling lost on glory. a
dresser drawer filled with mementos, a lamp heirloom, more assorted papers.
I
love what I feel in time, absent of a person, knowing we get what we put in:
similar voices, similar antics, similar dice.
hurts
to see you, aching in silence, I never met you; some thought I entertain, some
musical on channel senses, to imagine no flaws.
isn’t
it what we desire: a person loving crazily, hushing our doubts, flowers growing
atop skies?
such
a small shoebox, possessed of memories, easily a memoir, easily dismissed by
the masses.
I
love what I feel in senses, contained in a person, realizing inadequacies.
I
awaken softly. I’m awakened harshly. I wonder why it matters. so sincere right
now, why does it matter?
the
taste of mind-breath, cut to pieces, dancing on sorrow-wings. to have adored some
ache, to feel unsteady, to have loved, and purchased, sight unseen.
have
many thought of all they want, desire, some shroud developing uneasily?
some
kite, so unreal, upon surreal imaginings.
some
dream, meant for innocence, meant to scream—at faces, interior, to awaken with
gold so close.
