When this love was not knives
I prided myself in simply knowing:
Being able to pinpoint his laughter
from the resonant balconies of auditoriums,
Predict his speech,
Map his countenance
and the paths of his eyes.
But he walked in that morning wearing your vestige like a smile,
with the glittering of your eyes in the corners of his,
and I knew that I knew him no more.
Now that you’re there,
mosaic-ed to his eyelids
when he dreams,
fluttering in the chambers of his muse,
There is nothing about him that only I know.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
When this love was not knives
I prided myself in simply knowing:
Being able to pinpoint his laughter
from the resonant balconies of auditoriums,
Predict his speech,
Map his countenance
and the paths of his eyes.
But he walked in that morning wearing your vestige like a smile,
with the glittering of your eyes in the corners of his,
and I knew that I knew him no more.
Now that you’re there,
mosaic-ed to his eyelids
when he dreams,
fluttering in the chambers of his muse,
There is nothing about him that only I know.
a letter to her
