You are it.
Cannabis clouds and midnight moon calls.
Merry meets done in sacred churches.
Acculmated thoughts explored through hazy sunsets and clouded night skies.
You were it.
Punctuation & puncuture wounds.
Ellipsis eclipses irreverently irrevocably eradicating elipsises to periods.
you ran the race with me and i lived the journey.
With in(finite) flashes Momentarily my mind was suspended and I dis(be(lie)ved). Because I ran the race with you and you lived your own journey.
You were supposed to be it.
Not the white picket fence
Nor the quiet suburb
Not my secret fantasies of what I'd like my life to be.
Paintbrush in hand, each stroke changed my precieved notions.
And unlike any man known to me, you stayed and painted a new mural, not for, but with me.
Stroke.
Indinan promises made on tainted rivers.
Stroke.
273
Stroke.
Giggly grapes and grave initiations
Stroke.
Lust/Desire. No. Affection.. Or adoration. No. Love! no!
Stroke.
4th demension.
"You (I) would have been it. But you (I) couldn't be it."
Those infinite finite momentary suspensions of my dwindling heart strings. Cherrished.
The painting is one of many in a series of a fortunate friendship. Sparing a glance I find it... astonishing, unique breathtaking... Beautiful. However, I can't bare to look at the corroded canvas for to long.
You aren't it.
"Are you okay? I love you so much & I sincerely apologize for hurting you."
"Are you okay? You are hurting too."
You aren't it.
You aren't the canvas
Nor the paintbrush
Not the painter
Or the paint strokes
Unchangeably so...
You are my paint
And I am a mossiac.
