She ran from me
in her voyeuristic
tendencies.
Bespectacled in the night,
she shed away her divinity
this girl with a penchant for tragedy.
A dramatic prelude to her kiss
would be the fixations of the poet
to her eyes and lips and skin.
Those which he can only recall
in music--
the slow andante of violin strings
entangled in the coasts
of her body.
Come morning you wake
to the tune of silence.
You could never tell her
those three words she longed to hear.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
She used to tell me
of math and poetry
by the length of her arm
and rhythm of her heart
conversing verse and fraction
with form following the function
of communist theories
and greek philosophies.
she beat out aesthetics
with a perfect symmetry.
because no one understands
the relationship between
seafoam and shoreline
the way she does
[swimming in saltwater sorrows]
reimagining time in an hourglass,
she shot up infinities with a glance
and left me moondrunk in the night.
she emits sparks throughout my system
breaking and entering--
my kingdom under siege.
her name was an amalgam of numbers
italic1.6180399. . . .italic
and I loved her by design.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC