(no subject)
If in the Sunday weather I could see my eyes as I wrote, a few weeks after summer died…. And it doesn’t feel like a season anymore...Its too warm. But not warm. Its too cold. But not cold. What is the blanket here that covers me. I hear the shower faintly running in this hotel room. And I wonder what she looks like. I know what she looks like. Summer girl knows the winter is wrong. And in this morning the fruit of the moment is falling and its not meaning much more than swimming towards the end…we can choose but even in the choosing we have chosen.
I imagine how warm it is…soaked to the skin by summer light or autumn water. I’ll keep trying to find her. I’ll keep holding my flame over her, hands wrapped around shoulders arched and begging, bedside lamp, Lysol can. Half drank water bottle, empty stale scent, riding against truth, ancient paintings faded and cracked, bed soaked, speed and sound, frequency of smoke, warmth in the demonstration, and we fought for our lives at night, to fill the corners, to cast spells on the sheets, to touch and bite, razor bullet light ached from the cracks in the curtains, all the medicine to the head, all the promises burning within, the stories sold to self to knit the missionary of measured regret, making it work, making it quiet, making, making making, always more.
It’s the mystery in knowing better than desire. Getting the best of the other, which is the other getting the best of the other. The wasted light. The information, the judgment cast off of getting, the frequency of being fine. The promise. And all those positions, those carefully crafted lines saying, ‘I think it’ll be ok.’ Oh, forbearance…the decision was made long ago through the mist of knowing better.
I imagine how warm it is…soaked to the skin by summer light or autumn water. I’ll keep trying to find her. I’ll keep holding my flame over her, hands wrapped around shoulders arched and begging, bedside lamp, Lysol can. Half drank water bottle, empty stale scent, riding against truth, ancient paintings faded and cracked, bed soaked, speed and sound, frequency of smoke, warmth in the demonstration, and we fought for our lives at night, to fill the corners, to cast spells on the sheets, to touch and bite, razor bullet light ached from the cracks in the curtains, all the medicine to the head, all the promises burning within, the stories sold to self to knit the missionary of measured regret, making it work, making it quiet, making, making making, always more.
It’s the mystery in knowing better than desire. Getting the best of the other, which is the other getting the best of the other. The wasted light. The information, the judgment cast off of getting, the frequency of being fine. The promise. And all those positions, those carefully crafted lines saying, ‘I think it’ll be ok.’ Oh, forbearance…the decision was made long ago through the mist of knowing better.