My Right To Your Left

Turned away: a thin line of bone, a crescent sawed in half, and a sprout of soft bristled pigment are all that remain within your field of vision. Between the memory and the actual event lies an ever-decreasing borderline, which shifts and turns shape as it closes in on itself, finally self-engulfing, self-cannibalizing into a solid pearl of unquestioned imprint within the mind’s soft folds of cushioned matter (the soft inner kingdom of wispy, spiraling images and language rhythms). You hold this peripheral vision, more dreamed-of shadow than physical presence, of his right to your left, and pray the future bring the inverse: your right in his left, for this feeling of an image to become the shadow which lines his dreams (his state of utmost psychological vulnerability and sensitivity), for the hoping and future’s decree to collapse in on themselves (mirroring the collapse of memory and event) under the loyal weight of your soul’s will, pure and doubtless, which your exterior psychology (persona) has never been able to overcome. And he speaks to you in the familiar secret tongue which has not changed a lick since your first settling into the intradynamic which, following its inchoate stage of rubbery mutability, quickly sets itself into a basalt that will outlive both its hosts, and perhaps is rather an ageless wellspring that only took the discovery and familiarity to recognize as eternal phenomenon - love in its inexhaustible tragedy and triumph. How could you ever be convinced of true dissolution while this vein still spouts and speaks and impresses? It doesn’t feel possible because its not — it is, still; it is still occurring now in the space-time of your psychologies and the external reality through the current it has created, the dents it has hollowed out on the personal and soul’s joint surface, like craters in that maternal, light-reflecting earthroamer who witnesses your separate though concurrent nocturnal movements and desires. Can wish become reality, can desire bridle destiny without the performance and fakery of breaking another’s, but rather a merging into fluid future which desires the same thing, which long ago planted its desire in you. Desire is not meaningless, fatherless - it is a biblical, prophesied weaving into the soul and electrified at the point of recognition, at the moment of peak event when realization of weight transpires across the landscape of the inner valley. His corporeal soul seen in the violent pastel sky of the desert on the night of such a recognition. Has he yet cognized the shape of your essence? And the joint essence - will it be seen as it was felt, flirted with, held in unending anticipation, as it was once known innately at separate, or possibly joint moments to both? A fear continues to grow in and manipulate the two minds: one of fixation and the other of a slipping away, loss of what was once indisputably excited over, body of precipiced youth stubbornly holding all hopes of a future vague and endlessly changeable. The customized fears are tethered to that primeval competition of subconscious logic and bodily compulsion which overpowers the softness, lightness of the soul’s knowledge, creating tragedy when cooperation fails. To have and to hold are two separate things indeed.