it was always easier, than this.
I could write a thousand odes to each,
gooey and warm and tepid,
all tasting of passivity and cacophonous monotony,
interchangeable.
(the people, not nearly so,
as varied and with intent such as they are)
but the language of my memory
has been mimicry.
mirrored media,
creation tainted by glasses stained rose,
unknowing absolution within the poems that I wring from hands left cold,
knowing the grey, but stealing the shadows from theirs,
leaving larkspur where acid once fawned,
begetting the same bare, collective love story each time,
a cathedral emptied of water and wine, hollow and echoing against the glass and the stone, the ghosts of perdition settling below the nave, pressing loss of God betwixt your navel.
there is no room for growth within these tales,
but at least they did not hurt to tell.
•
it was always straightforward;
butterflies, tangerines, summer days,
kisses on the back of your throat,
hands, fingers intertwined between the layered grass in your grandmother’s backyard,
bourbon on our tongues, taste of cabinet stolen,
lunch in concrete daytimes where everyone knows you and I am your possessed silver grenadine,
promises of future moonlight dispensation,
forgiveness like blind crickets,
crooning to a saviour long since forgotten.
•
words that have long since lost their foci.
•
but you have grappled my pupil,
lead my willing hand against yours,
coincided with the stars I have long since beckoned for resonance,
truly are winter ground cherry,
taste of winding catacomb pathways,
sweet like decay and pressed petals.
you hold me with fruition,
patience and consideration,
lead me to the sun and winter winds with trust that I am intricate and will not unravel so easily,
you do not yell at me when I am weak,
do not expect me to be absolute,
forgive me when I forget how to be strong.
I want to press my cheek against yours,
take your bones into my carcass,
find a way to intertwine ever abysmally into the deep,
show you the thorns and the twine,
and forget how to pretend.
•
prose of you is difficult to procure, in sincerity,
but the falling?
it has never been easier, than this.
•
12/29/2021
•
You wrote me a song – let me return the favour.
Tofu 