Your voice cracks more painfully than puberty,

innocence lost in the garden of quarter-life purging,

hyperaware of the sounds a long-tamed heart makes when it’s heaving, and beating the walls of its own cage,

and I know it’s what you think.

You think I rung the bull, and by god you’re sorry.

I know it’s the truth to you, but your truth is a lie,

and your lie tells my truth.

Deliberate intentions aside in the predicate of a lie –

burn the doctrines, sin is subjective.

I learned the tender truth with you,

and it’s that one day your eyes began to hang like outdated calendars,

pictures relevant to a decade that has come and gone, somehow still beautiful,

lost, still beautiful, even though they are

withering in this bible belted humidity, they are searching, searching,

searching for revival, 

after an era of memorized dinner prayers,

broad handsome chest, hooked, ground level, tug of war with time’s anvil,

a caricature of,

a life lived backwards, anchored to this state,

sails packed away,

in order not to impose,

on the apparent wind two people walking through empty space should create,

but who instead bent to perceived wills, 

the wind collided in a gyre.

No draft to sweep away,

the detritus on the floor from a year’s worth of pruning.

I want your eyes the ways I first saw them,

in the bar, on the couch, the rainbow lights shrouded round them,

greeting brightly for brightness’s sake,

in spite of the natural negative affect for which knowing makes way,

before you lost yourself in the garden of misfit dreams,

free of the walls expectation creates.


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