says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have
many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,
what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face
chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings
You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.
Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,
I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate
into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness. Delicate essence
the neon sign says, glaring through the
glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
separate had no omen of rain.
I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,
feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.
It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 5:03 AM UTC
says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have
many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,
what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face
chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings
You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.
Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,
I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate
into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness. Delicate essence
the neon sign says, glaring through the
glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
separate had no omen of rain.
I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,
feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.
It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
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