Thinking of it now,
(better late than never
[like every Christmas
{like most everything}])
the weight of the truth
that it’s always been you,
even if it cannot be,
is undeniable
and laborious.

The memory tastes like peppermint
(those gingerbread houses
[unsafe to live in
{my artistic structural shortcomings}])
when we let the flow,
the current through our touches,
breathe and take flight
as I extinguished your questions
with lips and bodies covered in salt.

As I read your words
(that start somewhere
[go elsewhere
{my mind rewriting}])
I remember how
we holed ourselves in
together
and everywhere we went
was cold but fine.

We’ve never been strangers
(your words
[my agreement
{the one consistency}])
and if there was ever
a previous life,
we made love
on every beach,
on every coast.

The epitome of forbidden love -
(tragic
[study in contrasts
{a lifetime of hopeful hoping}])
we wallow in
and out,
teetering on
the dangerous curvature
of the horizon line,
rearranging the pixels,
quantifying our particles
until we can live
perpendicular
to fate
and parallel
to everything else.

02/29/2016

Posted on 02/29/2016
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