It's a back and forth pendulum, my love for him. It's the bow that needs to move up and down its caresses so the sound will never end.
Flowers, ripped to shreds and flying as if a pillow split open. They're fresh and faint, burying you from your feet upwards. The perfume is asphyxiating. You don't seem to notice—maybe I'm imagining things for you. If only we could lie down together on thousands of volatile petals and fade away with them. Perhaps an alternative could be to suspend it all in between this moment and the next.
I keep going back to the wall facing south. The pictures hanging on it are bleaching peacefully. If only I could dive back in, plunge into the warm depths of teal and gold. Instead, we're just facing each other. I'm sitting in a recliner, watching the sun breathe onto the wall, inhaling us, exhaling slow fire.
I count the ways to tell the same story. I weave my way into a box inside another subject. I spin the subject around like a refracting globe, hoping that one of its sharp, endless planes will provide some insight. It's an old city that survived the new by agglomerating novel pieces of building. I hook another concept onto the mass of balloons, and watch our weight pulled up, we fly away.
It's the sky that will keep us safe. Lifted in a basket made of instants and hope like hot air, it's leading my thoughts astray. The high wind ruffles your hair, or maybe it's my hand. The blue turns to gold, hot pink, blazing crimson, and suddenly, empty. The balloons disappear, and all that is left is the pause at the end of a piece. Genuine suspension, we're holding hands alone, with an eternity between the world and us. The absurdity of filling space is gone. There is no sound, only an insulating vacuum from life. It's silent.
It's silent, because you're me, and I'm you.
