We drift within vanished memories, our obscured
individuality.
Each experience —
a hollow fragment of oneself we can't hold.
Our hands though clasped,
can never tangle into one.
No storm could shatter the walls each long hold.

Our souls orbit in polyphony,
never quite colliding.
Intimacy pirouettes at the extremity of an abyss–
silently.
A fissure runs between two hearts
beating synchronously,
yet searching solitude.
Our hearts–
a silent sea where longing wanders away.

I trace the marks on your face,
quietly, deeply.
Hoping a map could lead to the depths,
of your soul.
But I am trapped in shadows of uncertainty,
where words flounder
and secrets lie.
We lean towards one another,
yet inwardness no matter how close–
guarantees a distance.

Perhaps we aren't lovers but actors playing.
Here I am lying –
in the void of emptiness,
refusing to accept that distance kills intimacy.
In my mind,
remains fragments of our memories.
Maybe we never truly found love–
only lost in each other's embrace.

@noirwhisky

I heard a wise man saying,
"I wouldn't just abandon a friend
Simply because they were going through
Some strange parasocial moment.
Although, I will admit
That I may not fully understand it.
That I might not be able
To fully appreciate their perception
Of whatever given situation."

For, you see,
We can only truly speak
On that of our perspectives.

~
Where there used to be trees,
but is now a causeway
under the Lord's nose,
reside a constant tourist and his wife
who have all they ever wanted,
light and lure.

They swim in a pool
on the dangling homestar,
overlooking metal decay,
she pinches his cheek,
he smacks her bottom,
summer in Gotham
is now upon them,
gifting different things:
he sees mystery lights endeavor,
she sees herself a dragonfly
on the lure.

Monday thru Friday
they like to ride
the elevator of their love,
up and down it goes along a focal point,
out of him and into her,
when the door closes
they come together,
when the door opens
it lets in the tide of loneliness
and they begin to push buttons.

They dislike home
and its constant secrets,
what she wears is for him,
but less is more,
he invades her often,
but she's become a empty field,
theirs is Neptune's bedroom,
if they don't find
a reason to make love,
they will stay up all night
until irritable frozen creatures.

Invictus interruptus,
with the luck of the draw
they play dangerous days:
a game of blindfolds
and snowmobiles,
a game of hammers
and nails.

The plane of their lust
hunts the morning light
on gloomy Sunday,
the rain wets their hair,
the sidewalk creates a song:
electric skylark,
they dance out of focus,
he grasps her hips,
she makes a beautiful sound,
caught by magic,
trapped by photographic memory
and numbered doors.

Light and lure.
All anomalies.

Sublimation will not return
until the day of the focal point,
in the city where they have
all they ever wanted,
yet here they have nothing
more than microcosm,
the rest is distraction.

Maybe they should
remain a constant.

Maybe he should
just hold her.

Maybe she should
just let herself be held.
~

We're two different people,
But in similar ways.

We both like chewing gum,
A pack in our pocket at all times.
But mine's watermelon,
Yours is nicotine.

Rock-

a-bye-baby
My little brother, a new friend maybe

He grew up quite different than me
Are similarities were hard to see

Recently we found some common ground
Our relationship may now rebound

Spending more time with him
at a new climbing gym

I went rock climbing with my brother
I wouldn't have gone with another

The task to rebuild seems so steep
but its worth it so I will keep

Climbing

I woke up at angles with you
---a parallelogram, opposite but equal,
my thoughts in constant rotating view
---a diagram, showing us where
our homes are laid to rest,
where streets became dead spiders
caught in their own webs.

If we are in transit via tunnel,
aqueduct, or escalator,
it might be cinema.

If we lose atlas in the worship of light,
it might be cinema.

But I can't find you here;
here, where they used to build ships
from sand and steam
and science fiction;
where they used to design
buildings so as to create
a dissonant and mournful
whistling sound when wind
blew through them
---ostentatious things;
dead people’s things.

Through walls and underneath concrete, dug so deeply
into the wide plains
and withered, gnarled tree roots
of an agonizer's conurbation,
is a space halfway to the zenith,
charting the prescribed power
of in-betweenness.

Never again will we draw meaning from
our proximity to one another.