The Perplexity Between This and That

I wonder if there's a version of us, somewhere, anywhere, in which we are laying in bed together, instead of me filling the emptiness with words, these words, like a prayer; a version of us where we're still holding hands, instead of me holding my breath, where the wind smells of chamomile and not like the roast beef my downstairs neighbor is cooking for her boyfriend who is celebrating another birthday; an us where you are happy and i am happy and your sister is still Here, and she happens to be staying with us because instead of being gone, she is here, celebrating our love, because she can see just how much i love you and how much you love me.

If that version of us existed, i wouldn't need Immortality. I would want to be mortal. I would love to fear the day i no longer existed just knowing you would miss me. Instead, i know you don't miss me, and pretending to be okay with that is beginning to really take effect on how often i smile in a day. I can count the amount of times i have smiled in the last month. With you, i could keep track of how often i didn't.

In this version of us, i have to waste time wishing you would come back.
In that version of us, i would spend my time making you laugh.

Let's be that version of us; this version is eshausting.

A Study in Distance

once,

we were distanced only
by mere ignorance of
the others
existence;

now,

what is our excuse?

Whispers Apples We

we whisper'd our way through
with our happiness,
always careful not to disturb those, who
for some reason or another
would not understand it, or know how
to empathize with it,
because happiness

is something similar to describ
-ing green to someone who's never seen
anything
other than an orchard,
replete with
rotting apples that
they call chrysanthemums;

who are we to say otherwise

A Study in Bereavement

to say that i still love you
is accurate;

to say that i still know you
is illusory.

Old Friends

In the surreptitious nature of disembowlment, I found that which I believ'd lost: an anecdotal memory,

in which I am not, but there is
& according to professionals, perhaps.

But what is there, behind the frosted, tinted, ambiguous lucidity of a promise,
after all the lights are off, and everyone has gone home,

And I am left waiting for you,
but of course, I am not there
and you are; this is what
good enough is.

somewhere along the road,
I rediscovered disillusion
and it felt like running into an old friend.

A Portrait For A Missed Lady

riddled in ceramic fragrances,
somewhere the light chaces;
and opportunity turned to ashen desperation. stagnant. mesmerized hours

of bastions left dressed
in silken robes,
and yellowed abandon

i want to sing into my own ears,
because I want you to see me smile.
it felt more real.

absence is nothing.

Hope is the last thing to go down with a sinking ship,
because the sun still shines regardless of the shadows cast by sinking ships,
or wounded lovers & those on shore still enjoy a new day.

Infinite & Intimate

A single moment of intimacy,
between held fingers and
intertwined

destinies,

I imagin'd you and then you were.

In a moment, a lifetime.
In a shadow, a future.
In a smile, a promise.
In laughter, infinity.

A lifetime of always returning to you at the end of the day.

A future of endless possibilities, because with you all is possible.

A promise of always loving you more than yesterday, but less than tomorrow.

Infinity, because the only way to live, is knowing that we are forever.