I never met you, not in totality, just glimpses, and
the parts make the whole package. Years turn into decades. It wasn’t right; we
just couldn’t let it be. So much
disliking, hints of volume, much more disdain. I
imagine things are clearer … the angel is a perception … age is catching us—much
security in feelings, morose, fretting another’s misery … holding a pinwheel,
asking something inside, loving you was easy, a
mistake, a problem; made colder, made warmer, quite selective, envied, a little
envious, making light of something in you, something cruel, how has it become
eternal?
Maybe the hurt is in the pain—a feeling, to read it,
to know we’d write, laugh, talk smack, and aggravate society … walks aside a xyst,
pruning emotions, and there I go, pontificating about something probable,
made beautiful. I snatch a chair. I find a table. I speak
a name … it lacks substance, the river is enigmatic … I eat a meal, I hear a
feeling, I remember we hate each other. Maybe not … so esoteric, a book can’t
give
us experience: moving through it, so close to
abstracts, if it were that, I’d be a memory. To chirpsing. To crush on you. Like
a fool. It’s much realer now, I shouldn’t resurrect improbability.
