“everything in its time”

I hate the world that makes us paranoid. That which destroys our capacities.

We are built into our words and our fears. They hold us without letting go.

Yet, we are not warm. Trust, a fearful disguise. Sometimes so sincere, it hides in smiling eyes.

But we don’t. We cannot love, can we?

When all we need was never ours

for the having. So I may say that I yearn, and I need, with all the brazen deepness of my soul,

but it all means nothing here, even on my lips.

Because you cannot taste them. And I have reconciled the lie.

We bed our sins down softly, with inscribing fierceness.

Just enough, until the doubt of ourselves sinks itself in,

because we know no different.

Love, being that thing we could shelve.

Except it is the reason we live, and so it cannot live by a deny.

I tear these words into pieces, by the simple click of delete.

For what else can matter here, but the defeat of such speech?


Never undermine the power of a single, lone word. Even an emoticon conveys message. Every single utterance carries meaning to our recipient and thusly whoever that person reflects that linguistic force onto in dialogue next. Language was and is always “the things [we] carry”. We are never alone, or outside of our speech. Our utterances live on, especially after we meet our deaths. Depth is thought alive, forever alive. @axb21: “Textament.”


Give me the whipping breeze against the scraping mountain boughs, and kiss my eyelids (oh you did) with the sunset who names into twilight. When two people see one another as who they are to the other, they embody a mirror. Only through an other are these parts of us visible. Light haunts the shadow that lines my figure on this walk. It is permanent impermanence, your most tender grace captured in touched silence. I am alone now.

Resolve should be sublime; it should terrify the self; it should tremble the ground inside me. It should make me who I am.

I am a stealer of the ocean. I am a keeper of the telling tide. I am the Pacific’s letter coiled safely in glass-blown dynamite.

agency is a dirty word. cover me in it. both control each other. control is a relationship, acquiesced upon. put your mouth to my ears so i am deaf to everything but your kiss. @TinyNietzsche: “Lose the ties that bind.” spoken like a philosopher, felt like a hand. you are undulating reprimand. we thought less of the moon because it wasn’t the sun. then some of us reminded the others: we see more at night. @the_1st_rule: “exposure.” every dream is a speech forever unspeakable.




separation, the figment

synchronous, filament

tidings another word in place for another space.

is it rupture?

or voice?

vices of the tongue

we cannot answer with certainty

to agree with that is not conformity

if but to say

saying as saying goes

we make itself anew,

each time.

inescapable inside

haunts their need for the outside

all need wrapped in a smile

“i do not know of [this] that you know.”

but i’ll tell you later, when i speak with the other, that i have read

i understanding better then.

we make it each day

a moment, you said once.

a moment always living

whether or not we are not

it is right here. touch, a reminder.

faces only we can be


the only possible i accept

still. races down my intent.

libidinal, the only true rhetoric.


Then there is, and it is. If an ‘is’ could be an ellipsis drawn on the ever-dawning of time.

a word written on my being.

my being, one unwriteable word.

you hear my fingertips

its maddening


the taste of language.

to feel another speaking

hear one another dreaming

the touch of thought

sensory conversations

why else, do you wonder, we react to words?

For the nothing of them.

we make them into themselves

thus, ourselves

an etching palate

did i miss a spot?

i tremble in your tone

it makes me who i am

brevity is the graceful assault of the genuine

a voice grasping me at my sides


the endless drawing of a piano’s imagination

share it with me?


Rusty: “Love is having an entire conversation with one look.”


let me stand nude in your narrative

poetry is the caressing of my inner hymns

bitten, until it begins

you are the translation

scribing the curves of my shoulder blades with your palms

kiss your story down my spine

pulse’s reflection

and sleep.


warming internal, eternal a spark

leapt upon the darkness. I held the

line where light met night in

softness unadorned

in the night, the lines between us

became the texture we write

ourselves by. the space we are

most alive.

lips extinguish what burns the

dawn. in nothingness, that is what

is there.

you, once a mere poem breathing

into broken lines, now a power no

hands have held.


writing the same poem with the same results.

nothing stops

idle hands

wind calling in absent

letter of resignation

taking up residence in the unseen’s darkness

arms wrapped around a tree’s shuddering entrapment

leaves leaning against my face with empathetic absolution

walk until daylight

it may never come.

walking on.


Evening takes its final glance.

I don’t own anything.

I own nothing.

The most expensive possessions are what doesn’t exist.

keeping them close

fulfilling air

a smile to the insulting

grant-taking eyes

liberal denial

and puppy cuddles.

there was no knife on my person.

you bring the music with you?

it’s all in second-person, but nothing always matters

The story needs you.

I’m a poor substitute

flip over

them knuckles be light.

two narratives, one story.

eternal protagonist, and the most loyal of best friends, back again.

sometimes it’s nostalgia.

sometimes it’s that thump thing.

time for those bones

the man on the bridge, under the aged streetlight, a cracked photographer’s lens, purple imprint, he has heard me every time.

he came looking for me, promises in hand, written by a many others’ pen, made anew in a voice I had already known…

the voice so nearly a memory, tears running slowly down my cheeks.

he sent me into the night

and I’ve spend my ever-since searching to pay him back.

the way we can love paths we never cross

because those footprints carry the purist of hearts

I’m a thousand hugs away from you

there have been friends, and then there’s you

we know well how to hold on to escape.

because it’s dark green.


Saying any language has no flaws is resigning ourselves to finality, death.

Languages are as alive as we are.

“Taste my language”

words go through me

stopping only when they reach the place in me where they’ll never leave.

internal, my heart. unreadable, as fiction.

@shynymoo: “Echo and Reverberation”

read your way to me,



write me toward you.


~@leslieheme: “I wish it was you.”


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