He scored the magnitude of her enthusiasm, but it barely registered. Judging the worth behind her silence, often he found more sentiment in her noise. And walking alongside him on 2x4 bridges, she almost stumbled into the reflected sky. But instead of falling, she was swaddled. Stabilized by the serenity of the clouds passing below, she was able to continue on the path to its end.
"That bird over there --
The one with a red chest:
The bird is sitting in the tree behind us, and its chattering prosody is noticeably familiar. Chords of melancholy are released on its song, and I am moved to transcribe the notes that are played.
It is like the twice-removed cousin you saw once at a funeral: nature is drawn to identify through instinctual recognition, but with the frequency remaining just foreign enough, we choose to disclaim it.
But all I can do now is watch you roll your cigarette. Your intention is careful. And it's mindful. It is as though you are handling the delicate petals of a Lotus. [Like the time we discussed the segments of an orange, and how they echo what is sacred.] And as I watch, I consider how many more cigarettes you could eventually roll if you had preserved all of the scraps you have dropped over time.
It feels like an angel is eavesdropping on us. Or maybe it is the sun. Hidden, its warmth is shy today, and I can relate.
There are too many scratchy fibers encasing this coconut skull to effectuate any thoughts with real meaning. I hear the fragments splash in its crowded vacancy, but the nonsensical order sounds like the white noise in a warehouse.
She loved to witness his intelligence. His transcendency was palpable, and she prayed it was contagious.
She moved closer to him on the bench because his mind was peyote and it felt good to get high.
Suddenly, I am flooded with curiosity about a stranger I sat next-to on the bus yesterday. Her ivory skin and red hair reminded me of spoken word. As we shuttled darkly beneath the retiring city, I stared at her feet which were crossed uncomfortably against her weight. She had a bumblebee tattoo on the top of her right foot. I wanted to ask her if she had a reason for choosing the right over the left. And I wanted to tell her that, as a spectator, it seemed she was subconsciously crossing her right over left in an attempt to avoid smashing her bug. But I decided to goof off on my phone instead.
Time is a wave: God jumping in the ocean as we assign linear meaning to its slow-motion burst, but, really, it is all just one Pollock mark on the surface of Earth. And then it is over.
I want you to write a poem about me. I want to see myself emerge from your flesh, and through your eyes. The thought of it excites and frightens me, all at once. I can't help but wonder if the bad will marble the good, or if the good will marble the bad. It really doesn't matter, either way. And it doesn't even matter how the verses unfold, or what metaphors are applied.
I know that you love me.
And you --
Love me in a way that
Could never describe.