You belong to the ether,
to memories eclipsed in saudade.
I cannot recover the incline of our journey
or the bittersweet implications
of your infinite meanings.
We were coruscant in our brevity,
a glitch in a continuum without fault.
I do not seek you out,
your extravagance, your fishnet tidings.
Time has rendered me lenient
and all that we were
is now alien and diffuse.
Whenever I see a field of tulips
I think of you,
how wild, how cultivated you were
as I remake you again and again
with varying inflections.
A very quick write before bed!
Mute. Vulnerable Given to collapse. My heart lies diminished. Having peeled back too many scars, too many layers I am raw, besmirched, and not yet itchy. There is no comfort in expectation. In the opposition of neurons corrosively overburdened. I think too much. I succumb too easily to lawless sleep. To anti-realities and dissociations. Hours pass more quickly than minutes. Minutes are impatient. Minutes add up but hours reduce. It’s a long time waiting for the sun to drop. Waiting for my responsibilities to undress and settle serenely into the arms of a generous lover.
I am exhausted. Minutiae are threatening mutiny. I scurry, kaleidoscopic, through rooms on the verge of collapse. The Gilings are on the rise. I’ve arrested the latest pathogen and all I really want is to lie on the sofa with a swatch of velvet thrown over my icy limbs. I want to dream, idle dreams, that require neither compliance nor consummation.
Gilings just means dust but it sounds like some type of creature doesn’t it? I am emotionally and physically exhausted and yep I am getting sick. Also I want people to write letters real pen to paper letters. I keep telling myself I will write letters but to whom? My hand-writing is atrocious and I’d drive myself crazy worrying about it. I wouldn’t even have very much in the way of concrete things to say. Maybe I should write post cards lol I absolutely love post cards.