drift off into incoherence with me
don't speak
your presence says enough.

our veins intertwine
our heart beats together
our breathing is syncopated
and our minds are the same.

you are me and i am you.
there is no us
there is no we
it is one.

unspoken connection
of a disposition predetermined
by the stars before our time

n.h.

Eternal whispering in my ear,
Your laugh almost a song,
But fold you in my arms I will,
Every breath a brewing storm.

I heave with your heart,
Midway between ephemeral and divine,
Bound to me with my feeble hands,
Oh! To see your eyes in mine.

To feel your thoughts on my shoulders,
Heaven strewn with the fiery dregs of goodbye,
The euphoric envy we feel for it,
We recline with the sky.

Reprieve \Folder:  Heart aesthetics


a breath drawn ever so lightly,
so cautiously aware.
the rain drops fell lightly and kissed the dry ground.
a blessing eases out from under a rock
blood  from a stone turned to wine
the cool breeze caresses
and the heat slips into sleepy embers
the wind gently consoles.
the nagging worry eases on the shoulder
knowing too well the conjuresome
tricks of the fire storm,
a breath, a beat;
a sideways glance;
a view to a ****.


(c)

Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.

As I sip succulent absinthe
from the mouth of a cyan sea,
I succumb to a seductive grin
and sell my soul to thee.
 
There it is, a dappled smirk,
on your sinful lips as well,
and now that you are willing,
we have a tangled tale to tell.
 
Come now my sweet euphoria.
Caress me in your kiss.
Send me a twisted alibi
and wrap me in utter bliss.
 
I am the tainted murmur,
I am the nimbus quick,
and as one, we are miasma,
to the sickest of the sick.
 
Your skin a sweet oasis,
my hands a greedy verve,
the sense of touch engulfs us,
and we muster up the nerve.
 
No couple more visurient,
none filled with more desire,
no passion burning brighter
than that which we perspire.
 
We slow from our nirvana,
and slumber into mist,
dreaming of how it all began
with one etherial kiss.
 
By: Kevin Kurt Nepomuceno

maybe i’ll never be able to pin down why
this feels so different from all the others
but there isn’t such a sense of doom
as there was with the rest.
perhaps it’s me - my heart is no longer
the dilapidated instrument i used to consider
a metronome - back then it possessed no concrete purpose
except to keep time to imaginary songs that reminded me i exist.
having abandoned my expectations to be completed,
i know now that that which feels forever is in fact
perpetually transitory, and though this has always been
among my most profound of fears, leaving its
teeth marks in every place of every part i’ve ever been touched -
it is also one of the most exquisite - a placeholder among other things
one may deem irrational, like the fear of success or love or happiness.
in a world where fingerprints can leave scars
and kisses can leave question marks,
you don’t see me as a collection of calamities that
you are burdened to undo.
i am not born from your rib, i do not bleed to watch you burn.
you do know this, you do.
i do not know what it is about you but there is something
inside your heart that mirrors my own and you can
deem a myth a prayer or a truth because
some people find each other and know right away
that they belong together.
and even if you tire of my muchness (as you surely will),
i will not dim myself down - i will not be ashamed
of the wingspan of my love.
but the thing is, i know yours is just as wide
and perhaps that’s what it comes down to, really.
for the first time in my life i feel
like i am made of more
than just
wax.

You’re just the kind of person
some lost adolescent would go home
and write a ****** poem about
at 2am in hasty cursive
scribbled on stained notebook paper
wrinkled from careless handling, using your being
to bring some riddle of the subconscious
into an acknowledged existence— and then
destroy the evidence, rendering it
undiscoverable to humanity—like everything else
she ever kept
too embarrassingly close to her heart, because
when she was a little girl the adults in her life
told her that there certain parts of yourself
you always kept private
that are a no-no
to show to anyone, and those
perpetually invisible parts
are covered by your swimsuit and your stoic reserve,
the eggshell guarding your psyche—that if anyone
forces themselves in with enough effort, you’ll break
all over them
and stain their sacred feet
with your messy insides that never
seem to go back in
once you’ve released them,  which will
leave you eternally wishing
to retreat into that perfect little immaculate white shell,
undisturbed by your own humanity.

I deprive myself of glances
I would love to take of you, but that would mean
that at some point you would
grow suspicious and
perhaps conjure the ESP
I seem to think everyone has
whenever I have a secret about them I’d rather
they never figure out—but I have to admit,
you’re beautiful.
I wish there were words
precise enough to explain exactly how
I just ******* love
how you stare at the world
with a poet’s wistful empathy, peeking
discreetly through the one-way mirror
of well-guarded sensitivity,
eternally wearing a gaze reluctantly masked
with an adaptive weariness just
transparent enough to expose
brief silhouetted glances
of vulnerability.

You’re just the kind of person
I wish I had the courage
to let into
my psychological fortress
constructed with every accumulated brick
of accumulated cynicism
that materializes
from living in a world that
muffles every voice
it makes want to scream, even if
no matter how old I become I’ll
always be some lonely kid standing
outside of my own person, eternally yearning
for somewhere safe enough
to have a broken shell.

The benefit
of challenging anything
too comfortably established
isn’t so much
some clichéd grand expansion
of one’s worldview, but rather
a well-warranted reminder
that anyone claiming to have found
any conclusions is very likely
full of ****.

I love you dearly, humanity, but
you discover the world
like a toddler discovers his own foot,
and cling
to obsolete sensibilities
like trying to justify your belief in Santa Claus.

And you hate what you find
when you look too long,
because
you say that you discover the world
but what you so stupidly, so humanly
overlook is that the world bears herself
with no inhibitions, and even though
you can’t see everything immediately,
it’s all there; she has
nothing to prove to you. Yet the mystery
you so excruciatingly choose to maintain
is that even though the earth bares her skin
unashamed, you find her ****** absurd and
clothe her blatant body
in preconception, tragically dedicating
the decoding of your existence
to finding out
what truly lies beneath.

So perhaps, humanity, you should
embrace those who **** you off,
because you cushion your soul
with every reason to distance yourself
from any realization
that there is no inherent parallel
between every finite question
and the eternal answer,
unsatisfied with
the tantalizing ellipsis
the universe leaves you, and that the very fact
I even formed a sentence
is punctuated
by my mortality.