i only remember you by
the sliver of your words
fingering
a sheer imprint
of your back-handed vocabulary
what do you see
when you look into me
do you see me at all? (did you ever? did i?)
or am i just judging you, judging you?
were you ever caught laughing in church?
so fastidiously, so cynically, so desperately
with such sincerity
imagine
imagine all the people
standardized, straight in line
good posture making up for crooked ideology
(what do you have to make up for? everyone has demons to please and angels to tease)
pews, these pews so evenly spaced, in equi-distant indifference
like the trees that line my sidewalk suburb living station
stay 100 feet away exactly
(i cannot remember where else you could have been)
the birds chirped on their perches
like so many pear-bottomed ladies in floral paradigm dresses
evening wear, it is appropriate and never was
some abstract symbolic significance
i only knew you through symbols, images
representing/transposing/discombobulation
something else
some ideal, some version of perfection
disparate and euphemistic innocence
another word for subhuman
another word for beauty
and this is it
this is
the blurred line of clarity
annika, listening and breathing in words that fail to describe such accomanpying emotions. have you noticed how the moon dips down sometimes, or changes in routine, when we least expect it? how it smiles coyly covering half of its craters blindly, when astronomy labelled a fuller night.
tell me of beautiful books, of beautiful art, of beautiful movement, of photos half faded and kept inbetween binders of books.
have you received my gift? i wonder.
use it under the moon, only if your listening to hear everythign else, which im sure you always do.
Yes, it’s here. Such a gorgeous blank world. Pages of stiff but inviting paper, waiting to be folded and smudged with vitality and swimming dreams. I find it amusing at the very least that you, whom I’ve never seen nor do I have any sort of other contact with other than the stark contrast of black & white words on this screen, could have given me so much in a notebook that fits naturally like a child in a mother’s embrace in the quiet, open space between fingers and palm. Words like these I would die for, words like these I live for … thank you, my dear friend.
Don’t worry about me, I am only in a “stage” I suppose. I feel as if a part of me has been dormant for quite some time, left tucked away and unused (school has a way of deadening me in a way I find a little ironic), but now I am slowly awakening and it is what you would call “rude.” There will be nights of possibility and infinity, though. I just have to figure some things out again.
Did you get your gift? You should soon.