it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat,
the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it.
disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable.
no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights,
don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head.
you are a molecule.
molecules are small,
you are small.
on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world
than what i would change.
consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity.
segregate mind
from
self.
seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation.
inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out.
and again, i spat out black, fine lined ********
there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me,
i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet:
go ahead,
drip-dry from my dignity.
it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage.
because freedom is threat:
consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision.
but there is still room for appreciation:
for the consistency of
light, warmth and relativity.
swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce.
what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten,
the lie is still that you're twenty-seven.
but what drove through,
down,
enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored.
my loyalty proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked.
just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident,
no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back.
so just let me burn in the grass.
because it'd only be wasting my time,
airing out.
it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe
in the gravity you say
forced you to
fall
into
me.
one day you'll laugh.
one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places.
one day the water will stop running from our taps.
i'm sure you realize i sexualized you,
like the young thing i am.
i should apologize,
but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind.
rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.