vicissitude, convoluted.

you, the xylem.
i, the phloem.


unscrewing ruminations;
cascading premonitions.

this space.
the distance

of

A
to
Z;

of the sky to

the moon.

your cunning gaunt
echoes a deafening sound,

of ten thousand decibels ----

but not quite.
not quite.


somewhere far

the girl with the

dreamcatcher tattoo
runs home.

and finds nothing,

but cobwebs and
illiterate hardbounds of atlas.

this stark blindness

ushers down
as it traces
back to the acromion process
of this solid,
unparalleled nostalgia.

waning,
wailing in vain.

how far,

is near?
the miniscule minutes,
the fragments of days

are that mastodon nightmares

choking us, burying us

six-feet-underground;


to the pitfall

of nothingness ----

and

loneliness.

day 1.

i cannot act
like i just
don't care.

because i do.

and it gets harder as the clock
continues its stinging movement
making you move
farther away
and away,

from me.

i don't.
i don't want this to end...

not yet, love.









please?

rumors.

i bleed.
i break.

nothing humors me
than some fancy old diabolical
parable, that is meant
to deceive.

i lie.
i cheat.

nothing pleasures me
than seeing people
fuck each other up.

i laugh.
i cringe.

nothing excites me
more than witnessing a throng
go crazy over
some fictitious
character that
is melded to perfection.

as if, one truly exists.

i run.
i grieve.

nothing,
is worth the pain,
lest you know
it is REAL.

i love.
i screw up.

nothing,
can bring me
to my knees,
no one
except,

YOU.