email

i awoke, lifted your slumbering comatose arm from my torso, padded barefoot naked to the window to check the rain’s drift. and there in the email: immaculate papyrus, crossed swords–cryptic, punitive, convoluted machinations of reason.

here, transcribed:

(these verbs cement a foundation upon discourse: accept and reject ideals simultaneously through a redefinition of core concepts. stories come too easily. ignore such lies until there appear to be no more. then read, anonymously and without reference to place. my time is without you, i am dealing now in the unsaid. mine are fingers condemned, where the same novel, the same tunes and the same past will meter our impending youthful doom. they will dash us upon rocks and crevices, upon opaque mountains and foothills of paper truth. this is us all just the same as it was, the only way.)

(abandon all pretense. burn these screen strips of worn hurt. steal away a virgin alongside the ripened canal. take another, build a mountain range, a bus stop bench, a monument to malcontent with your calloused eyelids as i drift in and out of smoke like silk. gulp diet coke and dance back to sleep. then wake, then write.)

(we courted under glitterball revolutions, electroclash rhythms gave us the idea of eating, and eat each other we did. the soundtrack of mildew gasping in syncopation with urinal flush cycles, an introduction in no way harmful to the future. did you see the structure of love in the gaze of the bouncer? the relevance of form’s necessity stole you. let me question, as it will strengthen your sweat-stained neck, your oiled collarbones, and flex further within the confines of thought.)

(forever adore my underwear, forever underage, forever spun like concierge distaste. hang these ideas upon your bedroom when very much alone, for only then will you be ready to let me inside.)

(and so i go, wishing you incredible clarity in the day’s temperament. allow me an epilogue: last night i exorcised anger whilst walking to the bassline of abstraction. across carparks and playgrounds, i forgot the passing crowds. excluded all but low-frequency decibels and a photo of you. and it all seemed to fit.)

our past–one of those seamless visions of a beauty that resides within the confines of love lost.

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