it makes my eyes hot everytime that i hear it
i know without doubt it was written for us
twohundredandtwentysix seconds elapse and
i think to myself, how many more millions
of seconds-that-turn-into-minutes-that-stretch-into-hours-to
fill-up-the-days will go by until it's complete.
It's worth the wait.
you're so calm on the surface.
percept of lucidity preludes calamity and
somehow, you think you know my intentions.
ha.
placid, unlike the lake, hardly describes all but the surface.
i write to feel
accomplished
yet,
what have i accomplished this time,
besides the restatement of the
obvious.
there is nothing i can do short of
yielding
to the somewhat tangible measure
that we use to calculate the
difference between
now
and what will be.
Hello familiar face,
with all the groundwork you've
provided
i'm not quite sure why you
leave me stumbling, but
nevertheless i'm here.
i've arrived and so have you
and right in the nick of time.
we bypass the customary exchanges
so sublimation can run its course
and of course the consequences were
never a consideration.
tick. tick.
How could you even think for a
minute that you were the innocent one?
Hello again, familiar face
i'm waving goodbye with the
blink of my eyes
tick. tick.
How could you even think for a
minute that you were the innocent one?
i was buried in the
six mile stretch between
here and God knows where
along with any chance to somehow
rectify
what was already in the past.
it's a little too late now
but bones speak more than the
former musculature could
ever say.
a collision of
passivity and passion
will never result in
resolve at all,
but rather the
oil and water
keep a balance
between what can and can't be mixed
the latter prevails every time.
there are mirrors all around
but i see myself not once
involuntary avoidance,
i wonder?
maybe the cause is
justified
in the angled reflection that
aims
misses
my closed eyelids.
open
closed.
the shutter blinks.
bloodshot?
not on purpose.
i would never let you be
the cause.
i write until my fingers
bleed ink
and once that happens,
i find i can easily
convey
all that it is that courses through
my veins.
spilled out on the page,
i'd never write in red.
it would be too obvious.
give me words to write
and give me thoughts to think
the kind that thrive and further
the letters drawn in ink
they subsequently gratify
impatience at its best
effect becomes the cause of
all my worries put to rest.
i promised once to let you know
as soon as rain had turned to snow
if and when we'd meet again
i guess i'm overdue.
but even still, there's naught to hide
the spark begot is still inside
i've less than spent iniquity,
in words i wrote to you.