There's an exit sign above the shrine.
It reminds me I can leave at any time.
There is no clock, though.
That reminds me that it's all relative.

hello there,
midnight in a stalemate hug,
you there,
flirting with the mistress of yesterday's wind,
the enraptured soul,
the solemn crowd on a bridge of flowers,
waiting for an enemy that doesn't show up,
fear is near,
dear one,
and you can taste it warm and sweet,
and what if each scar were a reminder of your good intentions,
ones you can roll between your fingers like a mala prayer bead,
and not let all they say be all you hear,
though there are sunrises you may never see in this life,
you are the mountains of clouds billowing the infinite of the all,
and you always remember to have one foot on the bedrock of the earth,
and the other on the tail of a tiger.

i moonlight as the sunshine in your darkest dreams

i am the gateway the kingdom and the key.

  i'll settle for reality, though I am, after all

   to the last sunrise, the cult leader is, in effect, ineffective

    in the same state of mind, but a different state of the union

     because no one is willing to remember what they already forgot

I can feel your heart ache under your soft, warm skin as I glide my fingers along your gold-mended pottery fractures. Skating on the glaze you've let me peer beneath to reveal your raw materials. We used to use air and clay and water to speak, now we communicate in a wordless language, born of naked otherworldly splendor.  — and  that planet, your body, I long to explore.

Their souls had spoken. Rushed off into adventure fueled by mania without first breaking the ice. These talks were between new friends. Altogether anchored by deathless subjects, they deliberated naively over a shared *** of bone apple tea. The glass was broken, but this was no emergency - just heavy words minced by chattering teeth.

Hesitating only slightly, they took a death pledge. “I’m bad and it’s not worth it,” she said. “You’ll be disappointed by me too, and I’ll bet my life on it,” he returned. They chuckled sheepishly. “You’re going to miss this too”, sang the younger sibling.

Of course, their conversation was purely conjecture, subject matter the victor of a game of happenstance, mutilated in transcription, like notes copied over the shoulder from someone else’s lecture.

Still, he hoped it didn’t matter, and without hope, it didn’t matter. Perhaps this was merely thinkful wishing. “I was a single digit, a gorilla in a concrete jungle,” his words seemed to suggest. “A flightless bird makes good food for thought. Fight or flight, fight the good fight. Always choose your battles wisely, and never speak in absolutes.” she recommended.

“It’s got to be somewhere; everything’s somewhere, but, everywhere else is not here.” he wondered. She could read between the lines; and left to write. “Stop being ungrateful and just close your eyes.” She closed the door, and he opened a window. Then, like some thinly sliced avocado that didn’t quite make the cut, he fell asleep.