Everything I touch feels like it's mine.
It was the way I probably imagined
as a young girl, before knowing what
it looks like,- the shades and angles.
And right there I became the person
I imagined being eventually, as defined by
the things around me. No way of knowing then
who I’d be from the inside outward,
timely and tireless in all my
hungers and appreciation. Emptiness
without edges. My room
was beautifully decorated as any
product of aloneness. Candles were lit
and I never light candles. Evening
shortened the cylinders, a high tide
overflowing of once-surfaces
that had seen me with other men
by the light of their own eyes
a few reformations ago.
And he played songs from seven
decades ago, voices of the dead
reassuring us of Spring.
His face belonged in front of
the gilded wall, beside an heirloom
oil painting of melted sunflowers.
I could have held him like a
dream trying to resume itself
but he would only diffuse, let me
spent the next day
like a lifetime of trying to remember
what didn’t happen.
as a young girl, before knowing what
it looks like,- the shades and angles.
And right there I became the person
I imagined being eventually, as defined by
the things around me. No way of knowing then
who I’d be from the inside outward,
timely and tireless in all my
hungers and appreciation. Emptiness
without edges. My room
was beautifully decorated as any
product of aloneness. Candles were lit
and I never light candles. Evening
shortened the cylinders, a high tide
overflowing of once-surfaces
that had seen me with other men
by the light of their own eyes
a few reformations ago.
And he played songs from seven
decades ago, voices of the dead
reassuring us of Spring.
His face belonged in front of
the gilded wall, beside an heirloom
oil painting of melted sunflowers.
I could have held him like a
dream trying to resume itself
but he would only diffuse, let me
spent the next day
like a lifetime of trying to remember
what didn’t happen.