Crossing the lake, without touching the tip of it's face.
The rippling water only tickles, but not by my impact.
Something underneath it causes most of it's inspiration to attack.
I jump free and away.
Never hoping to stray from that memory of us that's decaying, molding itself within the earth, recycling, giving birth to a new short term bliss.
I take great comfort in the fact that it won't go amiss.
It finds it's direction clear, pin pointed at it's specific destination, then finds it's landingprecisely.
I only wish that I could be that direct, that forth coming, all the imagery that wastes away inside my head, is coming to an implosion.
It no longer wants to be enclosed in this cowardly casing.
I cannot determine if I like what I'm thinking,whetherit's right, wrong, or somewherein between, the thoughts of you and me never cease toilluminateme.
When I think brightly, though it be rare, I recollect your fingers so gently grazing my hair.
The despair is worth it, just to cling on tightly to that wish, that dream, whatever it is.
Living in the dark shadows that have come for me finally, basking in the sunshine foreternityjust isn't rationally thinking clearly.
I knew my yearly friend would come for me.
Engrave it's markings ofloneliness, emotionally improper, scripture, to keep me grounded in the place, the roots I've alwaysabideby.
Things, they say, change as quick as a blink of one's eye.
Maybe that's true, maybe what everyone says is just figment, and because I'm losing you, it's only truth that saying andexplanationgrow moot to me.
I don't need it, and soon enough I won't need you.
My mother told me once that I should always keep myself aspristineas a temple.
A goddess engrossed in gold, a princess able to strode through life with ease.
Cleansed and free.
Whatever it is, it no longer exists.
Whatever I am, it's no longer a trick.
I'm done with the magic mirrors, the trickery behind your ear.
All must become pure.
All must findclarity, most of all rationality.
Life is not a fantasy, when I wake up, I'll be aware of this fact.
When my eyes flutter open, I'll be contained in this fact.
When my mouth opens and I take that realistic breath, thedefinitionof this fact.
Alive and well, I write letters to the dead.
My brain's mentalitydecapitated, I still have my head.
Myself esteemwashed away from the shores of self acceptance, fuck it.
Words and sillyelaborations, who needs all thiscatastrophicexplanation?
The flesh lingering from my lips, I lick it clean.
Whatever is domineering about my personality has gone.
I've ate it whole.
Absorbing whatever is left, exploiting the after effect.
She's fucked him, I've fucked him, you've fucked him, he's fucked him.
No one wins.
Let's call it even?
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.
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