The way I feel about you is the way I feel about most things (definitely). Nothing special, because multiplicity breeds normalcy. To crave a fulfillment is to give in, & what I mean by that is I constantly catfight with biology. / At the same time, I can’t fake apathy. I can’t fake the thrill of new and alive things the same way you can. I haven’t spent enough time doing this—catharsis as a mood rather than an action, when the blood brings back the bad no matter how hard I try to be creative, lovely, or master. / Focus, you say. Help me, as if there’s anything I could have touched thoroughly. I never envied myself until I stopped believing your realities. / Anger & its comrades, they’re meaningless here as I hunt for paths around cliché. Your eyes are like jumping bugs; I bet you’ve never heard that one. And I’m sick of writing to & about you because it won’t change anyone or anything but me.
==> In other words, I like you hormonally and I wish I didn’t because I can’t.
[inspired by a sermon and the word]
Morning mist—love like a morning mist, a phrase that means itself, meaning it sounds beautiful at first but its allure evaporates with the first touch of sun. One wayward breath was all that
shreds of water hovering and tangling
above our hot heads, gone,
a peck of wind or wear, that was all! Love like a mourning fog. Grieving for your fickleness and what COULD HAVE WOULD HAVE SHOULD HAVE BEEN you know, ah… they say that bright light crashes into trillions of glittering shards upon these mist-particle knives, and
you know this white roaring in the eyes. One breathe,
two: sing it, three: you’re going to miss it when it’s GONE like the sun that grabbed your eardrums and it was too hard, too loud, too GARLICKY to love and blink! Just like that
I’m gone, gone! like the dew winking on lush grasses,
sparkly dew that isn’t sparkly or dew or physical any longer, that’s now just another little
scrap of H2O, in just another little
nook of the air.