You’re a Koan wrapped in gold foil. And as the words evaporate from your lips like subtle kisses pressed on morning fog, I don’t particularly mind that you talk on and on. Cause it’s nice to hear someone else’s crazy. It’s refreshing to see another’s ceaseless internal struggle, the sound of a soul creasing like pages turned by absentminded fingers—you ramble. Venting all your anguish and heart ache onto me, your hate and instability, and I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not listening, I am, it’s just that I’m blinded; cause with every word, I only see what you really are, the slippery truth that is you, when no one else can be found, like is a sound really a sound if no one is around? To hear it, the cosmic purr of meows over static silence, a tree free falling then by fungus found, tiny prayers for all the tiny violence, my weight in gold, which pound for pound reaches nowhere near your worth.
Though you’re godless and that’s okay. Cause a sort of abstract faith isn’t required to be a good person on this earth. It just takes heeding the lessons that life lends you, like our lips pressed on door steps at two in the morning. My heart bends for you, and I can’t quite explain it, cause with every other moment I feel like its breaking and then in the next it’s more of a subtle quaking, which is really cliché but it rhymes, and then we’re kissing. Rolling around on the pressed linen sheets of my bed, and its late you say, and so I drag the conversation on and on, trying to savor the moment with feeble graspings. It doesn’t work, though I didn’t think it would. And you have to be going, and you don’t deserve me, as if someone else could, but to me every word sounds like flower petals falling, sailing slowly from the tops of trees pretending that they’re dying. Even though we both know it’s a cycle, cause I took earth science, and next year those pussydicks’ll be back; cause matter isn’t created nor destroyed, in fact—just like those words which inadvertently annoy me with fear, they’ll pass, but never quite disappear, and in the night sometime, maybe I’ll hear them as I take out the trash under the dull star shine, or maybe on some far off beach in the oceans salty whine. Or both, I don’t know and it doesn’t really matter. It just seems like my whole ******* life is some abstract puzzle. But we’re kissing again which is fun, so I don’t particularly care. Though in the back of my mind I’m very much aware, that time is fleeting.
And you say we can’t be together; I can dig that, but I’m looking for answers and that just ain’t one, like dry helium gas in my lungs, my chest feels kind of light, and maybe I’m crazy, but it feels right, which honestly makes me seasick, cause for some strange reason I really like the idea of we, and when we kiss, to me, it feels like fiery lightning, a sort of willful treason, my vocal cords shiver, tightening, my throat a river parched in dry season. And I’d tell you all this, but by now, you’re halfway to your car. And I’d like another kiss, but I’ve pressed my luck too far. And it’s saddening, but at least I peeked a glance under your gold foil wrapping, by chance, earned a sight of your beautiful debris piled—messy happening, which is somehow both refreshing and maddening. And as you close your car door I want to scream ten thousand clichés, and if I thought for one minute It’d convince you to stay; I would, but I don’t. I just stand there knitting thoughts and emotion, my face a wincing mask at every little motion you make, sitting silent for silence sake, when I realize I really ought to yell something out, so I ask “What’s the sound of one hand clapping?” And you shout something back, but I don’t quite hear you, which to me honestly, seems all the more fitting.