i pass on a story to empty barstools and
cathedrals -- that i will remain as
inconsolably so
and ask, shall I be free so as to
suffer myself?
admitting i am shaped according
to your demands,
where, first there is you and the last
always the prime of days;
where mapping out or telling a thread
is inclination to never mind
our place. the need to bury you
in my own Earth, willing to make you
meet a darkness which you once
were as if to swallow the entire verity
of common peril. this perish, this drown
first before displacement, to conceive
the evening within stories you have
created beginning with a sharp departure
making your silence and abandon final,
myself less than total.
that when i look at you, i want to burst
into meaning like stone being taught
to speak, as much like your study as comparatively
a bluer dawn rising from your feet
you passed me on as someone else, a makeshift freedom underneath an impalpable source,
that i am sick in your densest volumes
when you speak, all the more when you dont
realize that I am trying to gravitate you
into something, say to allow me into remembrance
and you, an insistence to function in void.
that whilst you remember, you forget
that in the tense moments I am trying to unlearn
you, as if there was only I,
the city we were both in underneath a senseless moon, and whatever it was that i saw in you
in such an imperfect night -- taking all your debris,
the body of all this sliding into reticence
as detritus, the unflinching weight of yourself
as time stumbles to shuffle absence.
strange now as the morning peers through
the wide aperture, there is only I,
faced with rivers as transit; when there was once
I moored in place and you have learned
how to walk, and further away.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
i pass on a story to empty barstools and
cathedrals -- that i will remain as
inconsolably so
and ask, shall I be free so as to
suffer myself?
admitting i am shaped according
to your demands,
where, first there is you and the last
always the prime of days;
where mapping out or telling a thread
is inclination to never mind
our place. the need to bury you
in my own Earth, willing to make you
meet a darkness which you once
were as if to swallow the entire verity
of common peril. this perish, this drown
first before displacement, to conceive
the evening within stories you have
created beginning with a sharp departure
making your silence and abandon final,
myself less than total.
that when i look at you, i want to burst
into meaning like stone being taught
to speak, as much like your study as comparatively
a bluer dawn rising from your feet
you passed me on as someone else, a makeshift freedom underneath an impalpable source,
that i am sick in your densest volumes
when you speak, all the more when you dont
realize that I am trying to gravitate you
into something, say to allow me into remembrance
and you, an insistence to function in void.
that whilst you remember, you forget
that in the tense moments I am trying to unlearn
you, as if there was only I,
the city we were both in underneath a senseless moon, and whatever it was that i saw in you
in such an imperfect night -- taking all your debris,
the body of all this sliding into reticence
as detritus, the unflinching weight of yourself
as time stumbles to shuffle absence.
strange now as the morning peers through
the wide aperture, there is only I,
faced with rivers as transit; when there was once
I moored in place and you have learned
how to walk, and further away.
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