in a world contrasted by dark and day, by the good and evil, by humble lands and infuriated seas-- why couldn't we have been together? where differences coincide with abundance, not one without the other; filling the same puzzle but in scattered fragments, what happened to ours? what happened to you?
i contacted you, though i said that i wouldn't.
my fingers have minds of their own, especially when they reach for the phone-- because they're influenced by my eyes, the whispering devils above them searching in desperation for your name to appear. it finally did as the time hit 10:30 P.M., and by then, i was an outline of myself; needed to be rebuilt with your fragments. and i knew that I would be, because, your hands always find their way back to me. maybe it's because hands don't care what they're touching: a tool with purpose for grasping life and discovering, and maybe i was a curiosity for you. the way i can bend and break and be molded to your purpose. the way that I love you.
you still love me as we sit in your car. the 1 A.M. streetlights encapsulate the life that we craved to be stilled, because perhaps if all the circumstances were halted, this could work. we talked all through the night and the sun would come up, resuming life, leaving be moments that are to be left in the calamitous waters of the night-- but illuminating the same, dead-end conclusion. sometimes differences don't work. we don't work.
YOU ARE READING
the petals on a rose
Poetryand then there will still be vultures after that'll continue to take what they can get from the residue of your pure soul [a collection of poetry & prose]
