~
Hear me, and heed my woe,

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
              how thy smileth reaches
                            thy eyen and
                                    crinkles the c'rn'rs
                                                  immensely.
Thy confidence, a flame
          yond burneth with f'rvent might,
   intimidating, yet draweth me in,
                            as moth to candle's lighteth.
Thy passion is contagious,
                 thy excitement a thrill,
    i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                                    but mem'ries ling'r still

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
          as thee gazeth into mine own eyen
                                        bef're our lips meeteth
    our intimate moments,
                                 a sensual rapture,
           thy corse, a w'rk of art,
                           sculpt'd p'rfectly in all its
                                                   muscular stature

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
             the way we w're,
                     young with a future,
                                         we couldst not seeth.
      What ifs and maybes,
               a maze, i tryeth to escapeth,
                      longing f'r what couldst've been,
           a heart yond acheth.

Ev'ry fare thee well,
                             a pang in mine own chest,
         feareth of nev'r seeing thee again,
                                      and all yond is repress'd
Thy absence, a weight
              yond i doth striveth to shaketh,
     wond'ring wh're thou art,
                                       what thou dost maketh.
   Art thou joyous, art thou free from careth?
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                     yet some days, 'tis hard to beareth.

In sooth,
    i am not depress'd,
           n'r doth i feeleth the blues, wh'reupon
i f'rce myself to not bethink on Thee …
                            by mineth owneth shall, anon.
~

I felt your skin
strip away from me-
you said you’d be right back-
as you slipped into foreign bodies,
lips soft with easy dinners,
who forgot the lightbulb burning out,
the lid left rattling on the counter,
a suit of pots dented, stacked,
steam lifting from a rust-ringed drain.

That studio in the Texas Riviera
was never meant to last-
brown carpet, AC rattling,
bass beating through drywall,
neon from the Whataburger sign
bleeding through blinds.
We were two beautiful accidents
in a month-to-month, always paid late,
your sweat a spell pressed into my skin,
ankles grinding on parking lot gravel,
the road outside a forgotten promise.

And when you smiled I held you
like a chipped glass,
rim still sharp enough to cut.
The ember died against porcelain,
the glitter was swept with the crumbs.
Your armor slumped in the pantry corner,
rusted tins, lids unfastened.
You walked away, naked and ordinary,
the light left buzzing in the kitchen-
outside, asphalt slicked with oil-sheen,
my body, also, dissolved
into the shimmer of the road.

Past is never forgotten;
time only teaches
how to live with it.

The future is not free
from the clutches
of the past.

Past is a mirror
within the soul—
unbroken,
omnipresent,
always there
to remind us
of what is left behind.

It's everybody's job.

Détente, rollback, middle-ground.

Working it until an internal weakness is found.

Surround the town with wire.

Eventually their voices will tire.

It does not work with fixed plans. It does not take unnecessary risks. Impervious to the logic of reason, and it is highly sensitive to the logic of force.

For this reason, it can easily withdraw—and usually does when strong resistance is encountered at any point.