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Feb 2011
You sad fool. My dear, old friend
How I find myself waiting for you again.

Your eyes drive into mine, with brights on,
and you leave palpable words hanging in the air with the writings by your teeth,
without a mouth to open, just jaw clenched, no recognition of existence,
And your hands are soldering irons cooled clenched until clashing into my air
Touching time, and instantaneously heating space, as an element
Reaching Avogadro's number, ten to twenty-third
Holes appear between us.

I remember when we used to laugh
And mostly at each other,
but not as we do now.

There was no malice.
One day maybe there will be solace.

"You act as though I'm a nice guy"
So it's true you like to objectify
The object (oh, the irony) of your affection
Which is anything that cares to mention
How creative was your invention
It was not my intention to
Organize a fluidity to the scrutiny
And the staged mutiny of what was a foundation.
For it's not representative to your thumbprint.

I feel no organization here. You have ordered chaos.

Bring up your lights.
Just remember that you look best at night, when the moon is carved into the sky
and your real intentions revealed.
Where you sit upon that pale desk
And wrap your knuckles against the floor,
Stab with a quill the pools you leave behind,
to write your ***** recollection,
Just remember you look best when your tears catch this starlight.

Francisco, bring up your ****** lights.
The only other man I ever loved.
Ryan Bowdish
Written by
Ryan Bowdish  Seattle, WA
(Seattle, WA)   
     dilemma and ---
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