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Description
I.
Green hills become
grey. I could fall
into a pattern of fog, or
condensation. Rain against a windshield. A look on
your face.

II.
Little things held:
in the palm of your
eyelids.

Things filed
under the title of "deception".
A brush of hand
across thigh.

You are my
Chernobyl, you are my
rotting irradiated fields.

You are the stutter
hidden behind the unwritten verse.

III.
To render a psalm for a flock of birds, to
pen your name on the flat pale ceiling. I once
learned the verse from the sound of rain. Watching the city steadily degrade. To find yourself in
an empty shell. To realize that you are
made of amaranth, filled with
pearl, and that is both
beautiful and horrifying. To
suddenly inscribe
nine words on your forearm, to
dig into peeling skin, to
listen to a funeral dirge on your
19th birthday, learning the meaning of
eulogies penned on trans-atlantic flights, learning the meaning of
sunlight on winter mornings, of
clouds opening before the rain.

And everything is still the same;
the paint on the walls. Sand in your shoes. The look on your face. A shirt hanging from the
bathroom door.

IV.
The sky is still the same. The clouds
always move. And cars, too. The rooftop is no different. I'm feeling a little on edge. I think you should
suffocate me now, I think you should
tie me to the bed. I want to be perfect physics. I'm not sure you're aware of the implications. When a palm slides down, when a clasp snaps shut, when I
fall into the bed, when I
fall into the wind.

Null space circles null space. Some amount of relevance. A little bit of
dust, photographs. I am a moving point in space, a transitory
shape. I could be made out of 4000 circles. I could be a vector in space. The momentum that
you and I have. Our own angular direction. Some sort of trajectory. I want to be a sphere, or perhaps something less. Tell me,
could we be parallel? Maybe you let your
deviance bend, bias yourself towards downwards motion. See? We could be two patterns of swift downward
strokes. You towards the water. I towards
concrete. We could feel the
air around our feet.

Description
I.
Green hills become
grey. I could fall
into a pattern of fog, or
condensation. Rain against a windshield. A look on
your face.

II.
Little things held:
in the palm of your
eyelids.

Things filed
under the title of "deception".
A brush of hand
across thigh.

You are my
Chernobyl, you are my
rotting irradiated fields.

You are the stutter
hidden behind the unwritten verse.

III.
To render a psalm for a flock of birds, to
pen your name on the flat pale ceiling. I once
learned the verse from the sound of rain. Watching the city steadily degrade. To find yourself in
an empty shell. To realize that you are
made of amaranth, filled with
pearl, and that is both
beautiful and horrifying. To
suddenly inscribe
nine words on your forearm, to
dig into peeling skin, to
listen to a funeral dirge on your
19th birthday, learning the meaning of
eulogies penned on trans-atlantic flights, learning the meaning of
sunlight on winter mornings, of
clouds opening before the rain.

And everything is still the same;
the paint on the walls. Sand in your shoes. The look on your face. A shirt hanging from the
bathroom door.

IV.
The sky is still the same. The clouds
always move. And cars, too. The rooftop is no different. I'm feeling a little on edge. I think you should
suffocate me now, I think you should
tie me to the bed. I want to be perfect physics. I'm not sure you're aware of the implications. When a palm slides down, when a clasp snaps shut, when I
fall into the bed, when I
fall into the wind.

Null space circles null space. Some amount of relevance. A little bit of
dust, photographs. I am a moving point in space, a transitory
shape. I could be made out of 4000 circles. I could be a vector in space. The momentum that
you and I have. Our own angular direction. Some sort of trajectory. I want to be a sphere, or perhaps something less. Tell me,
could we be parallel? Maybe you let your
deviance bend, bias yourself towards downwards motion. See? We could be two patterns of swift downward
strokes. You towards the water. I towards
concrete. We could feel the
air around our feet.