this is the turning point

lovers in the evening

April 24, 2019


i recall the time we didn’t.
words as vapour,
grains of the northern beach brush through your eyelash.
i tell you
how lucky we were that we did not end up together.
how lucky we are that one of us did something right,
in forgetting.
a child could be heard laughing in the distance.
i tell her to watch how it crashes,
how it cleaves in every footprint,
in every moment,
in every sandcastle that becomes marks of the pacific ocean.
watch how it never truly disappears,
but forgotten.
isn’t that the same thing?
in these eschatological truths,
i know 3 things exist.
1. heaven is a place far from here.
2. she calls us through broken mirrors, and empty screenshot conversations in the early evening
3. heaven is a silhouette too beautiful to know.
you tell me you miss her shallow breath.
how you tingle when she comes near
and in the moments when you held another girl.
you tell me how figments and memories
only serve as entrée dishes,
and that you don’t remember anything else.
i laugh too,
and we fill the empty silences of this November evening,
with cigarette butts and
beverages hidden from mothers
the summer’s chill,
and the lighthouse drifting aimlessly somewhere far away.
your intoxicated smile reminds me of someone else,
i say.
and then i kiss her.
salt stain of your lips burns like lovers in the evening,
like sweat stains in classrooms,
like fathers in courtrooms.
i tell her how i am instinctively flawed.
how i find my lovers in the basement,
and i cherry pick every single flaw,
until they pucker,
and blister.
this is what i find so intrinsic about this.
we are vineyards of envy,
gamblers of wrath,
I’ve tried to run from women like you,
women who picture heaven as a lonely existence.
i pretend i am not one of them.


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  • April 24, 2019 - 5:56am (Now Viewing)

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