You Were This Close

 

I don't know if we'll meet again

in the sea of light. Circumstances

aren't only up to human

beings. After all maybe it's

 

all drunk circumstance, but that doesn't

answer the blinding question,

it only poses some more. This

is what we know. You are what I

 

knew surfacing in the sky, a

deeply frying dream on fire. That

doesn't give you anything to

go on. It's a story stuck to

 

another story's moisture pack

inside a larger jar of stories.

You can see this picture from

your bedroom window. You can know

 

its raw material when your

feet hit the ground running. I held you once

and it didn't feel like the end

of the world to me. That's what you

 

give off. I'm a different kind

of continuous animal.

My hair is full of birds and wheat

fields and luminous leaves. I can't

 

deny this. I no longer want

to. I only meant to find the

right words to thank you. And gift you

this. All else is what betrayed us.

Bonus poem:

Part of the Map

 

of you keeps popping up in my bittersweet 

dreams like a mausoleum, but I don't know 

what for. You are not a ghost. You 

are not a passionate rocking chair. There is 

no insatiable journey taking place. My travel days 

are simple well being and over. I get 

that there are different modes that have nothing 

to do with flying cars and everything to 

do with laser shots of electricity zapped between 

certain neurological catchers in the atomic windows of 

our physical structures, but I don't want to 

rely on that instrument as the ultimate truth 

inside the music I'm listening to. Even if you get to the 

yummy center it wouldn't change things around for you or me, except 

now you have been thrown back further outside 

the (hidden churches of wildflowers by trees) circle of most future 

conversation—because you have seen its deeper meaning 

first hand. That's the problem with any kind 

of youthful idealism in life—it only brings 

you back to the start. You are the 

being you are and you are the one 

that is. Should this make you a nebulous 

mystic of some sort? Only if it helps 

you in any way to embrace your own 

below the sea human nature radar for some kind of ultimate happiness. 

Only if you mean to grow brighter and 

brighter until you find yourself dangerously close to 

leaving a sacred shell on the clear night 

floor in a silver pail of watery like moonshine like 

a long gone silence . But back to the coup 

de grace. I've given you my poetry as 

an embarrassingly yelling madman. I've given my poetry 

as a nice little lover on the side. Because our love, 

to me it should have always meant something different 

than the regular misunderstandings between the multi-cellular organisms that

need all that protein just to function. I breathe to convince 

myself that you are really a wonderful evening 

I'm having and not just an anthill of 

shall we say tests. So that's how I

came to write this poor thing scratching at your door this evening.