In watching I might see a small stature, a larger wit,
a frightening disposition. It might be an option, in claiming its land, it has
never been an option. I’m glad you didn’t do it. In seeing many, we miss the
one, kneeling afore a cedarchest, reading love letters. You were correct.
Drawers hold history. Palms touch pieces of confetti. Inside much takes place,
worlds upon miniatures, upon facts distorted for comfort. I was in awe. It read
like chiseled to roundness. The lexicon stood out and challenged the reader. I
can’t say if goodness is art, or art is goodness, much has been rethreaded:
seams, minds, we crochet as we inhale, days are for magicians. I keep seeing
you. Thoughts have patterns, filled with electrodes. So filled, so mighty, such
beautiful emptiness; as introverts, fraught by life, finding solace in
imagination. I met a spirit, steeped in interruption, it might be easy to love,
if love wasn’t a byproduct of intrusion. To bully a person, while thinking on
another, to trespass concentration, something marvelous—becomes a
whisper—maintained in rooms, escape is impossible, life is richer, it’s pure
conundrum. I will muse upon you, separated from time, giving luxury to spirit,
science, and literature.
