Jun 2014
The look in your eyes reminds me somehow of the trees that grow on the edges of highways and in spring bloom full of silk-petaled flowers that detach with a slight breeze to glide through the air like graceful summer snowflakes. You are poised but cold, hiding in valleys of norther countries among the shades of green patterned on the hillsides split by roadways and bridges and common human activities. They are put in awe by your mannerisms but you find their interest a mere annoyance and their existence a burden on your practice or careful angles of growth.
I think your lips might taste of tense atmosphere and thousand-year-old wine with a trace of strawberry-scented candies and a curiosity of the modern era adamantly tucked behind your cynicism. I wonder if your hands are that like the branches of trees you so resemble, or it they only appear so from the distance I must keep from you to stay hidden.
I am afraid of your chill; afraid that it will infect me and I will lose the interest that drew me to you with a sharp bit of graphite, or that I will leech it from you capillaries and lithe tendons that I watch stretch and contract when you move and you will become too like me to feed my obsession any longer. I do not want to ruin our tradition, even if you are unaware of its occurrence.
If I can remain outside of you 180 degree field of vision, I hope I can keep up appearances and continue the slightly degrading fantasy I have created.
I am like the faint outline of a drawing of a planet that, through pressure, has transferred to another page from a past one. I am quiet in a room, whether loud of silent, and often but contemplate an answer before I speak it. Sometimes I just want to lose my head and my expectations with it so there is no standard to reach except my own.
If this was a free option, I would drop my bags and my sanity and the people come only to judge me and take off either by foot into the endless black forest or by wing into the infinite white horizon. My hands and other limbs will grow ethereal so no other grasp can hold me knee deep in the images of acceptable.
Even the draw of the comfort of house can no longer keep me grounded; I have realized that it is all only an expertly-crafted illusion most of society is based on.
I already have it all planned out, dear. I mostly just want to see the backs of people's heads and the way their necks join their heads to their bodies and perhaps what that couple speaks of -- not exactly what they're speaking of, but more whether their words float of submerge or soar above each other in a butterfly's courting dance, and how they shut their mouths when they've finished talking.
I mostly want to see the manner of things.
I think your lips might taste of tense atmosphere and thousand-year-old wine with a trace of strawberry-scented candies and a curiosity of the modern era adamantly tucked behind your cynicism. I wonder if your hands are that like the branches of trees you so resemble, or it they only appear so from the distance I must keep from you to stay hidden.
I am afraid of your chill; afraid that it will infect me and I will lose the interest that drew me to you with a sharp bit of graphite, or that I will leech it from you capillaries and lithe tendons that I watch stretch and contract when you move and you will become too like me to feed my obsession any longer. I do not want to ruin our tradition, even if you are unaware of its occurrence.
If I can remain outside of you 180 degree field of vision, I hope I can keep up appearances and continue the slightly degrading fantasy I have created.
I am like the faint outline of a drawing of a planet that, through pressure, has transferred to another page from a past one. I am quiet in a room, whether loud of silent, and often but contemplate an answer before I speak it. Sometimes I just want to lose my head and my expectations with it so there is no standard to reach except my own.
If this was a free option, I would drop my bags and my sanity and the people come only to judge me and take off either by foot into the endless black forest or by wing into the infinite white horizon. My hands and other limbs will grow ethereal so no other grasp can hold me knee deep in the images of acceptable.
Even the draw of the comfort of house can no longer keep me grounded; I have realized that it is all only an expertly-crafted illusion most of society is based on.
I already have it all planned out, dear. I mostly just want to see the backs of people's heads and the way their necks join their heads to their bodies and perhaps what that couple speaks of -- not exactly what they're speaking of, but more whether their words float of submerge or soar above each other in a butterfly's courting dance, and how they shut their mouths when they've finished talking.
I mostly want to see the manner of things.
