We laughed together: one sits in silence.
I looked, at pretend, listening to pretensions.
I don’t, like then.
A person knows memories—hanging on, lost to future worries.
If one knew Truth, if one only knew!
I still find privacy, seeing pictures, photographs, living my demons.
What is it?
And you appeared; unamused … moved.
On yacht brains; on cliff gold; falling into bronze missives … I was younger then.
I hear it … every artist saying it …
Thank God!
Years at pains, high rise ambitions.
If it wasn’t what it is: something would be askew.
I have a little time … despite years. A modicum of atmosphere.
I was thinking deeply—as if monitored, upon a volt; such sweet voltage, such forgotten tomorrows, with souls going back; to imagine summer, bright beautiful lights, falling into winter.
Laughter isn’t sameness.
Love seems intricate.
Promise makes for disgust.
Needing a tug, pleading in God, fretting serenity.
