Thesis:


There's an easy way to disprove
that ignorance equals bliss:

                              Your eyes

were puzzles of space-time,
studied through conversations
fervent in their background noise-
where I looked for one single oddity
in what might have been the ordinary,

except it wasn't. Space-time
distorts around things of great

                                        gravity

and your light-consuming pupils
pulled me towards you. Complexity,
hidden in some unsuspecting darkness
that I was dragged into...
things I didn't understand
until I reach our event horizon

      and you and I are one.


(As for my thesis: what great Nothing would we have been
if I skyrocketed away
for fear of the unknown?)

Your locker is empty,
much like how I imagine
I and the concept of you and me
will be.

              You're going places;

unmistakably graceful
in your already absence.

Meanwhile
I'm trying to find a meaning,
a point
              in my stasis.
                                     I'm stuck

looking for a purpose without a you.

When I put
this drink can
against my mouth,
and the liquid flows past my lips,

I am reminded
of a moment,
of a closeness,
I'm not sure I should still feel

but do.

I.

In a world made of glass
I am your home
and you have begun
to throw stones...

...because maybe you forgot
that you can still see the world outside
without breaking me.

Not only that,
but your home had a door.


II.

Science says, that as glass, you will do a number of things
to my white light.
Let us assume then, that you are prism.
Let us also assume that it is a coincidence
that 'prism' rhymes with 'prison.'

Regardless:

When I go through you, my white light
will scatter
into a rainbow. While together
we are momentarily beautiful...
...one cannot help but wonder
about my sacrifice.

I've been torn apart into different colours.
No longer myself.
Just so you could have this poem.

YOU.


  I.

I enjoy the simple things:


kissing You Goodbye
since that's the only time
when God will let me have You-
when I can't;

the occasional glimpse of this God
when Your skies meet my eyes
since that's the only time
that I'm allowed to have You-
when I can't;

Your hands on my chest
and mine on Your waist
all until the school bell rings-
since that's the only time
that God will let me have You-
when I can't.

Which seems to suggest
that no,
I cannot have You.


No,
I can't.

No,
I won't.


  II.

Once upon a time


when eyes and skies met
and ignored the sounds
of lockers closing
bells ringing
and other people talking-

an invasion would flood our vision.

A friend of Yours', or mine's, hand
would cut across the space between
eyes and skies
and block the exchange of poetry
that I liked to imagine
happened between our souls.

I was perpetually asked:
"Don't you have a girlfriend?"
And perpetually answered:
"Yes, I do. But can't I have friends?"

Then suddenly I understand
what 'perpetually' actually means
when You tell me
that in a few months
You'll be off in some plane
going somewhere
for some reason.

(Question:
is it thus
too soon
or too late
to say that I love you?

(Or do I at all?))

Therefore there was perhaps no choice-
You and I momentarily disappeared
and we momentarily came into existence
in the briefest of
separate deaths
then
singular birth
then
singular death
then
separate births.

Separate all again, perpetually

asked:
"Don't you have a girlfriend?"
Then perpetually
answered
with nothing.


Well,
then I did,
now I do,
tomorrow I won't.


  III.

We are together now.


Sometimes You talk
as if in an expository monologue
in the grandest and most acclaimed of stages.
Sometimes You don't-
and the threatening silence
makes me wonder if I should go, or stay.

I was attracted to the mystery of You
and am also now angered by it:
I have no idea what to do
and often don't even know
what to write.

Prose and verse often fail
when the author has nothing to write of.

(What I'm really saying is:
Do You plan on maybe
replying my messages
anytime soon?
Preferably while we still have
any time left

at all?)

And then, hours, or days
later.
I still have nothing to write of
so I instead write
this.

I also write how

"I will never know what structures
exist in Your mental architecture: You couldn't
bring Yourself to give me
even but a blueprint."


You still won't.


  IV.

Exams are over. School has closed. We near our finale.


Of course what about
those fights that You and I
never had. Perhaps
we should've. Perhaps
we would've. Perhaps
there was no point in anything. Perhaps
there is no point in everything. Perhaps.

See, that's why I asked You
what You thought of Yourself,
Because I too would like to know

Who are You?

But then again...
I've changed my mind
about the end of this...of our...
literature. Let us instead say that

Your eyes are the stuff of poetry,
but look at the title of this-
it's only just... You.
And that's all I want
to talk about today.


But...
we won't.


  V.

I count the days until the airport.


Take note of what I will say tomorrow:
"Listen, for I am…”

The Beast that shouted “I”
at The Heart of The World.

"...a poet missing his muse;
who wished he could have told her,
everything he could think of..."

The Beast that shouted “I”
at The Heart of The World.


Even now,
I can't.

Even now,
I won't.