Seeing her was the same as
walking outside
and discovering
that the sky is blue
and finding it
absolutely beautiful.

I wish to experience life
as honestly as possible.
I have had enough of
my longings for
permanence and certainty.

Alas, must I stake a claim
on the sky to find fulfilment?
Do I need to own it all
to love it?
Should I resent those who
look upon the same sky as I?
Envy the clouds which
occupy it?

The sky was there before
me
and will be there after
me.
And that is a comforting thought,
I suppose.

I fear that I have been found
but at least I can I change my name,
but to those who know my face...
It is hard to do the same!

At night,
I have a terrible urge
to be sentimental.
It's as if my insecurities
are a Datura bud,
lying dormant in the day,
but flowering under the moon.

How do I reconcile
longing and
moderation?

To see something
that I covet
given away so freely,
as if nothing,
is maddening.

Oh, how cruel!
It only matters who,
not how.
In such matters
merit is not determined
by pain.

Alas, I suppose.

I am fortunate that she
can act as though nothing has happened.
It is a mercy!
However, in rejection,
I am afforded one luxury
which makes it all worth it:
She can see, clearly, how I suffer.

There is a nagging feeling
that I cannot shake
which tells me
the last time my name will be uttered
by a specific pair of lips
is passing shortly.

Once more, I rewrite
a line of poetry
from one of the great poets
as one would meticulously retrace
the outlines of an image.

The placement of each period,
the choice of a particular word,
if one of these were amiss,
it would be all for naught,
but my!
How each word, each line
supports the other,
what beauty!

Ha!

What beauty indeed!
The more I know,
the more it burns
like celluloid!
Fuelling anguish in my heart!
And oh dear!
What a jealous heart I have!
Surely, others must feel the same.
Is it so hard to discern beauty?
Can we not read?
Yet why is it so elusive to recreate something
even a fraction as eloquent?
Do we not spectate the same Earth?
Such mockery!
To recognize such and be unable to recapitulate it!
All things of significance
have already been written.
All else is imitation!
And how much more it aches to know
that I am a cheap one at that!

At least just once in my life,
could I not write just one line
equal to this?
I do not ask for much.
Just one line!
Then I could proudly brandish
whatever mediocrity I amount to,
like a brand burnt into my flesh.