the ultimate graciousness that is of you. Back from California, my witching ground, the place I still eschew from the pyre- you came back to me. And even as we spoke during your adventures, and even though I read of your exploration. The last day of your trip I could just tell how something was hurting you, how had you let this state inundate you with its adulterous poppies.
And after you arrived, the kisses and the kissing, the touching, and your cheek to mine, we caught the truth staring each other in the eyes. And you lost it. Eyes swollen, lips trembling, so I layed with you, touching your hands, your face, I combed my fingers through your hair, until we both could take a breath.
You told me everything. A boy you thought you would never meet, a kiss you thought you would never draw. I became so sad I could barely lapse a sentence from my mouth, as I watched you get sniffly and sadder. Black eye liner pouring down into my pillow. But there was no blame, shame, or guilt that you should have. We all have our libations. You and I both are perfectly imperfect, and so human that we have the liability of spotting enamoring, harmonic beauty in the souls of others. I just begged you to stop scorning yourself. You looked at me to scold or scorn you, ask you to leave or retreat, but I couldn't even break a whisper. You told me how such feelings still lasted, and how much mirth you received from touching tongues with this someone else I didn't know.
You are only guilty of being in love with me, kissing me on my hands, arms, lips, face, and legs. I insisted that we resolve this tonight so we don't ruin the today we have by dwelling on the past. You assured me that you wouldn't be moving permanently to California, I just kept insisting that you remain honest- and you were completely open every step of the way. I explained how I have committed similar acts and imbibed on prurient journeys of my own, offering to share, compare, and clear up the past by accepting our youths for what our youths are for.
I am the best version of me I can be, and there is no competition, should you wish to dance in the other room and tack down what we loved so immensely in each other, and then came downward-facing-dog, we were both only in underwear. It was that we couldn't say anything else with our mouths or our pens. You were never pretend for me.
The air is falling like a serpent fissuring on the cusp of a sneeze and blast of fire. We are the greatest and worst of ourselves.
