but you feel like a headache.
Jesus Christ! Ease down on them seasonal metaphors, man!
You put me down like I’m some sort of forecast, but I am swollen, legged, encased and embalmed,
feet concrete and metric of spades.
We’re all just semi-adults trying to fucking function
but I can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t know what to do with it.
I imagine your days more eventful than they actually are, while I
I danced with the dragons, and mighty we swayed unto unfolding
of paths like rants scaffolded,
slices of time, reality, alternate
universes where our lips
Are they touching now? In that different world?
Do you feel them?
I can feel us kissing when I close my eyes and that must be because
in all the lives we could have lived, the growing olds that could have beens, you and I
in our multiples, you and I
in other timelines, you and I
Good in theory? Not good enough. But strong enough that they resonate
through barriers of your cool
that they reach towards me
from different planets where we hold
but singular in purpose.
This way we long for each other is the world trying to correct our mistakes
because, in a way, the world wants us to be together more than we ever will by ourselves.
Don’t compare me to the weather, dear.
I am not seasonal.
I am not unpredictable.
I know who I want to be, and the ways I choose to go
and the person that I most unabashedly need
is you, and I’ll let you know that I know nothing about all sorts of nothing.
My name is blank and my mouth is empty because only you can occupy it.
I am the fjords unmelt by eons.
You cannot introduce your
heartbeat to me and expect me to break into pieces, thousands,
for that is not the kind of shelter I provide. I am
unforgiving, the entirety
factors and factoids, repressive,
and yet I’d bury a city underground under the screaming of your wilting memory
and children left unmade
and cards never dealt
at tables unattended.