Oh what an elegant tragedy we aspire to be.
So satisfy me with your mystery.
We speak different languages. A dialogue of impulse and similes.
Similar to the way you moved with purpose and attitude.
I was bound to attract your attention.
I recall the falling feathers of our fathers.
Like sand washed out to sea.
Bleak eternities spent in separate parts of reality.
Reality’s basements are being washed clean.
Flooded with water and covered with the dampness of feathers.
Feet rustling on the pavement. We beg for entertainment.
Company is coming over. To discuss plumbing and retirement.
Jumper cables upon your refrigerators.
I look into your eyes to deduce the algorithms for remembering.
Your blemishes are no longer rubbing me.
Your lungs were made for pumping oxygen and steam.
Yet we keep it airtight and dry. While aliens were coming for my eyes.
Your irises were dreaming of me. Meaning is always fleeting.
So I borrowed your compassion.
And danced on the Sun. You turned into a living goddess.
But you became just a memory to me. For freedom is never free.
It’s always drifting between sarcasm and sandwiches.
And it can never EVER be found on Reality TV.