there is a place i have to go, where i will always have to go.
and it is a place you cannot follow, because only i know how to find it.
it's a secret, but it's everywhere, and it lives in the groves and bowery inside me,
flourishing and green and quiet and steady.
its lungs are my lungs, so i must go to give it air,
but to also breathe a deep breath of life back in when i feel most stretched or worn thin,
and especially when life has been quite through with me.

but it grows cold and lonely at night,
and i have to visit it then, too,
when fell things awake and bright suns slumber in their shadows,
because im just as much a part of the day as the night.

if you will wait for me, where i've left you on the edge;
if you will trust me, believe in me, even when you don't fully believe it yourself;
if you promise you will leave me my hidden place,
then i will always, always, come back to you.

It's no longer the heartbeat.
Echoes instead, cooing.
Placating me with serpent wishes,
selfish desires.
Succulent, sustinent.
Cheap refrains repeated as a bridge,
before the heart stopping bass drop.
Echoes again, belting.
Three fingers deep into a whiskey,
and mind you there's an e.
Cheap American heritage bundled together
like a plastic suite of day drives and night caps.
Houses made of stucco, sticking in the heat of the summer.
Another simplistic S-word statement.
Another coughing mind without abatement.
Another ******* poet *******.

I think we had something-
It wasn't love, but it wasn't
Nothing either;

Perhaps it was just
Stolen glances and
Laughing together

Perhaps it was feeling
Giddy at touching knees
And having nicknames

I know it wasn't love-
But in another time,
In another place,

It could've been.

and in the flight of a butterfly I went
I went far after you for my love
and in flight a butterfly magical starry
I went to you my love
to you that left me last summer

and in flight butterflies through birches of oaks
through apple trees and many other places
through poland through america through galandia
and even through red red china
to you my butterfly striped like a zebra

and the star floats in the sky as if in milk they
but is not it so and everything is so
we live are born and die in milk
and milk I drink it every morning for the morning
and I think of you my love left in the summer

29.07.18