You were never as I wished you were—and I was never more fire …. I sense how dreams work. I believe they often hurt. You knew dreams are unreal, and you dreamed nonetheless, a hankering for spouting inks, pouting through sensations. I can think of earlier days, frenzy, frolicking and
dying goodness. You never heard silence. It wasn’t loud enough. I lost pieces in gaining fragments the depth of seas, art because it churns. A man listens to Al Green, waxing intimately, never quite locating himself. In keeping balance, a man loses science, sacrifices religiosity, and damages his
compass. What a foolish soul; such debris; imposing something pure unto an offense. Being bad to self. Being good to invisibility. A poet will compose a few masterpieces, trying to impress his audience, met with riddle, morose mythology, melancholic ontology. It was all for you, such
disbelief, finding a few held dear to cranium. You were never as I wished you were, and I never made for complete happiness. We glance over, peering left, strategizing to the right, mourning in throes of passion; a complex reality, a timeless clock, over bagels and avocadoes. One put it to
paper, unending vows, biblic promises. I often see us as complicated, acting in accordance, torn asunder, thrown to wildness. If it meant what ails spirits, so capturing a thought, tugged while kissing—the well-beloved; being human, so apparent, disappointed by naturality.
