we have an understanding
you and I
carefully tiptoe around

no touch waltz game of mirrors
and pretending
we do not see
attempts to follow or to lead
all focus on to hide
enough to please believe

I am worthy of the dance
  

inner thoughts printing press
working overtime
writing stories variations
hundreds thousands
locked up overflowing
when any one would do

finding myself
grasping lighters
hiding in my pockets
desperately wanting
something real
a fire all consuming
destroying what is me
to burn all past beliefs

I would grab old stories
by the handful crumpled paper
dismiss all for just one truth
throw them all to fuel flames
for just one scribbled piece
of any story from you


answers in a conversation
surrendered for imagined somethings
the nature of human loneliness
reading only what there is to read

there never would be fires
or firework displays

no darkened smoke
no burning out
no disappointment

just endless inner libraries in decay

In the evening we

rest and cautiously express --


our sincere feelings.

The air crackled; pre-*** tenses – with unspoken tension between
their eyes;  “please tell me you didn’t.” —a silent pause, “well, I’d
rather not,” he replied, a hint of passive aggression lurking
beneath his own shy’s.

“Can we talk about it either way,” —a silent pause, “absolutely not!
There’s nothing left to say; it’s all over, just like I am,” – he struggles
to find the right words to send her away.

“I refuse to give up, because giving up means allowing you to drown
in your own doubts– hey, it happens; but it won’t change how I feel.
Love is friction, but let’s not compare its love life to fiction. All films
are written, but our lives are unscripted” –

"Let's just promise ourselves to talk about these things"

he wakes up to the sight of her donning back her clothing
"what a happy moment"
he thinks, then, taking a good look A̲t her, notes in
his mind: "hell, this lass is smoking"
[smoking hot]
like a barrel of a gat unloaded
she, having noticed that her inamorato's woken
up, gives him a salutation: "sweet morning!"
he replies: "so sweet I A̲I̲n't even sU̲re if
it's real; am I having an amazing dream O̲r it's
paradise?" his reply makes the chica giggle
then she replies: "hope it's not wA̲Y̲ disappointing
to hear, but nay, it's still the sinful
world of the living"; she then sA̲Y̲s she was going
to wA̲ke him up were he
in dreamland by the time she would
have been set to tA̲ke off; "I'm sorry"
she continues, - "but I need to
get to my place; I..."; "hold O̲[ɑ]n, if you"
he interrupts her, - "have 5 plus mins to
have a convo, I'd like to say some-thing to
you"; she replies: "I ain't in a rush, mate
so, yeah, I'll give you
an ear", like a side space on a gazette's front page
as he gets himself decent, he strikes
up speaking his mind:
"in this existence of mine, it's the first time
I'm feeling alive, & I'd be dE̲moralized
knowing our encounter's ju[ɪ]st a one-time
thing; you're pretty as a pI̲n-up & nice in disposition, & I'd
like to know you more
there's already something in which we're alike
music types we both prefer
are similar, right?"; she nods her bean in reply
he continues: "I could teach you to write
multisyllable rhymes, which is, besides
music liste[—]ning, what I get myself occupied
with I̲n my off time; I could gift you a bike
I mean, a pushbike, so, you & mE̲, we could ride
together, just like Slim & 5'9"
["write together"; Eminem & Royce da 5'9"]
[who have a bunch of rap collabs with each other]
and if you like some activity I'm
a stranger to
I'd bE̲ by your side
do I have chances to
meet you agA̲I̲n some next time?"
————————————————————————————————
she replies: "wow! handsome, truth
be told, the speech administered by
you has done some damage to
my inner equilibrium; I
will give my answer to
your query, but, like
you, now I feel like venting my mind"
"of course, I̲t's only right
if you too say what you think", - he replies
she asks him I̲f she is right
thinking that, till last nI̲ght spent with her
he's never had something li̲ke this before
clearly implying that that tI̲me's been his first
it feels wrong to him to lie to this girl, but replying to her
query directly ain't more comfo[—]rtable for
him; he gets out, like a crI̲me figure served
his time, with a reply that his per—sonality type's introvert
somewhat surprised bY̲ what she's heard
she notes: "in that nI̲ght club you sure
didn't seem like O̲ne, you seemed
quite co[ɑ]nfident"; "sorry if whA̲[ʌ]t I'm in—
—tending to say is a ******, sim.
to a bad trip, but my condU̲ct was in—
—fluenced by a supplement"
he replies, adding: "but you can be cA̲[ɑ]lm; I mean
in terms of indulging in
substance consumption, I'm no fiend
unlike a leader of a tough regime
that was just a O̲ne-time thing"; she respo[ɑ]nds to him:
"well, that's what matters the mO̲st, 'cause, as
you may recall our joint small disclosure last
night, we're for sticking to the sober track"
————————————————————————————————
she continues her go by add—
—ing: "now, I want you... to know: I've had
a magnificent night; I thI̲nk that's a kind
of thing we both needed"; the guy
nods, thinking: "I̲t's something I cA̲[ɛ]nnot deny"
she continues by noting to hI̲m that, despite
that scene in the night
club that he made
like that game where the MC̲ undermines
a corrupted *****'s reign
just 'cause... hE̲ didn't like
["Just Cause" videogame series]
the stuff the DJ
was playing, hE̲ doesn't strike
her as a ***** of a guy; she adds that she twigs what it's like
to be by oneself & that being a psy—
—chotherapist, as she unfolds herself
to him, her job's providing harmed souls with help
he thinks: "this can't be real", like cold in hell
then he says: "you're... a therapist?"; "right"
she quickly replies, adding: "you seem really surprised"
he says: "wE̲ll, doc, if I
were to guess wha[ʌ]t a girl with such a curb
appE̲A̲l does in life, I'd think it's some-thing that prescribes
being pleasing to eyes"
then he adds: "speaking of whI̲ch, these remind
me of a smile: you've got this green in your eyes"
["grin"]
as she gives him a slight
smile, she thinks in her mind:
"is he really so sweet, or hE̲ simply tries
to increase his odds wI̲th me?"; "alright"
the gal breaks the silence
being 'bout to say something else, but the guy
manages to outpace her timing
saying: "since you're a psy—
—chotherapist, guess it won't hurt if I say that I̲ am
somewhat sick & even evil inside
but to you, I'm a null danger, darling
so stay composed, like a
tune"; she giggles, then says: "you're droll, now ta
your question posed prior: yes, I'm bone down ta
meet with you again"; she gives her phone number
to him, then it hits her: "I still don't know how ta
call him"; she asks: "by the way
you've go[ɑ]t a name?"; he replies: "mine is Blake
and yours?"; she replies: "Lucille"
with a joke on his mind, he says:
"well, that pretty much explains why you babe
are so mind-blowing"; stumped, she says:
"sorry, but I don't think I grasp
what you mean by that"; he says: "Negan's bat"
after which she gives a gentle laugh
[that scene where Negan blows Glen's brains [mind] out with his bat called "Lucille"]
then says: "I'd jest why
I feel like HA̲rley Quin, but I think
that, by this time
you've already cO̲[ɑ]ttoned on wha[ʌ]t I mean"
he says: "an adorable therapist
who's met a sort of odd E̲gg who seems
to be a joker"; afrE̲sh, she gives
him a slight smile; "well, dolcezza, it's
["dolcezza" (Italian) - "honey"/"sweetheart"]
been nice to have a chat
with you", - she starts her response, whereafter adds:
"A̲lthough, A̲s I have
said prior, I need to go"; "wA̲I̲t just a bit"
he says, - "I'll call a taxi cab"
"by the wA̲Y̲, it's on me"
he adds while he grabs some cash
then hands it to her like: "as a sign of favor, no re—
—jections are accepted"; she replies: "um, thA̲[ɛ]nks, it's so sweet
of you, much appreciated; feel free
to hit me up later so we
could pick time & location to meet
the next time"; both exchA̲nge "byes" with each
other, then, taking into consideration that he's
awful at osculating, she gives
him one aimed for his cheek; a blush-making thing hits
his mind, saying he'll need
her to provide him some training in this
kind of stuff; as she walks away, he can't help but gaze at this chick

Remember when you heard my name for the first time?

You thought it was a play on words;

I said it was just a play,

and you laughed like you knew the difference.

Remember the glittering forever you saw in my eyes?

I told you it was a trick of the light.

You said it was just a trick, but
we could make it real by wanting it—so I started wanting it.

You asked about my favorite lie, and I said, “I don’t know.”

You laughed, either because you got it,

or because you didn’t—and that was just as funny.


You didn't lift the weight of my words,

how they sank like stones in my stomach, obscuring my glitter,

waiting to see if you'd notice when they lost their shimmer.

Remember why we didn’t drive to the coast?

You thought I was scared of the ocean,

but I knew it had swallowed too many endings already.

The waves couldn’t wash away your ambiguity;

they would only drown my swell no salt could soften.

Remember that postcard I never sent?

You shouldn’t, but I feel like you would.

I wrote it one night in a knot of longing and spite:

“Wish you were here, but it might be better that you’re not.”

How many Dear John's sit sealed, unsent,

lost in transit between what was promised and what was kept?

Between what was enchanted, and what’s now dead?

Remember the night I asked what you'd save in a fire?

You said, “Everything.”

Like you could shove hearts and histories into pockets

without splitting seams. You can’t escape unscathed,

lock the door, and not stink of the charred bits you abandoned.

Meaning things and speaking things are not the same,

and if I wasn’t choking on smoke, I might try to tell you:

some things are meant to burn—

Some things are both the light and the trick
and the play goes on regardless.

I looked at nothing today.
After an hour
It asked,
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I, of course, didn’t expect this.
I thought I may have
Been staring at someone on accident.
Though, It was just me here,
And I suppose someone else.

Another hour passed,
As I continued staring at nothing,
And suddenly, I felt eyes
Right connected to mine.
-They felt spiteful.
“Doesn’t feel so good, huh?”
“I.. suppose not,” I said.
So I blinked.
I regained focus on the
Darkness in front of me.
Weird.
I looked at nothing today.

“Why so sad, Poet?
Why don’t you cry?

What’s so bad, Poet?
How do you lie?

Why so dark, Poet?
Why hide from the light?

Why so weak, Poet?
Just stand up and fight.”

But the Poet moved not,
Not a foot, nor an inch.
His breath never faltered,
And his eyes never flinched.
He just sat in his silence,
As he let his mind wander,
And he answered as such,
Though he thought it as sonder:

“I am not sad,
I’m a poet, that’s it.

Nothing is bad,
Not even a bit.

I don’t hide from the light,
I just live in my shadow,

And there’s no reason to fight
With the quarrels so shallow.

I’ve no reason to live,
And none to die either,

So I write down my thoughts
And I hope that the readers

Can wait for the day
I choose one or the other

And look past my pain
Until my eyes lose their colour.”

And never again,
Was the Poet
Questioned.

I never realized he was older.
I never thought much of him, actually.
We only ever talked in
Passing conversation that
Always went the same way.

I’ve always been “well,”
Never fine,
Or maybe not.
I’ll try something else next time,
Though I never remember.

Good job, I suppose.