The promise of Never-Never Continuation
I mirror my desire,
but my desuetude is too sour and soft
to understand the shape of my own footprints.
A promise coeval with my birth, like
in a black, glitter-filled sky -
a mistake of the mind,
a rare find
of a boy
bejeweled and glued to a
swinging with his sleepless eyelids.
I could say that I remember everything,
that it all started with
amber-yellowish highlights onto my face
in a hotel bathroom
where I stood slightly naked in front of the mirror of my own
desire - another form
to fold me
into shapes and colors,
the glow in my eyes
swelteringhigh above me.
I am a mirror of memory,
sensory, the perception of language
as a noise without understanding,
but movement is the pleasure
of hiding (the cartilage behind my hip bones,
that glues me together
like a skinned
coeval with words; from a childhood of loss -
it frightens me
to fall asleep when
the year is so early,
the self-decency of you getting the truck fixed,
the restraint of doorways, holding
hands, curved, sounds
in the palms of wrists
to the bones that dovetail.
This is what it means to be without you;
to fetter into angles unknown,
attention to my sore muscles,
fight with you, the sight of me
in the mirror,
or the house on fire across the street,
my fingers pulling drapes open
to watch through thick glass
and pass the news over noise -
do we even speak words?
Or do our faces just spark
in understanding, a remedy
that relies on itself too closely.
And what are ends - ?
the course threads of our connection,
an election of minds
coddled like wily dew drops
the way cold forms stick to the sheets
to remind us of the shape we took.
The dead effect.
A union spreading lifeless offspring
and closed eyes; violent, haphazardes, and yet
I cling to it like a babe to the foreign breast of masculinity,
the man I love,
the thoughts, I shove away
from perspectives, how to swim
through the bathwater without you
in the next room,
how to stand in front of the mirror with wet hair and skin,
a girl can be more naked
without someone else
then she ever will be without clothes.
But, I'm a keyhole
that you pressed your dark eye to,
look through, embezzle,
and croon - safety being like saltwater
lapped across my open veins on waves
that only bring bad news,
and of us
(through the transparency