what shall we?

        for Imen, Audrey, Eabha
        for Trian


While I write my trash, you surely live. Away. Forever on. Glad or gloomy. Extreme, but not as others do. And I staunch my blood. You – that vibrant chord I finger to not (in)exist myself. It wasn’t important, or if, won’t pass off as. You might be that (cute) peppy cuddly-like screen(in-) play I make sure by this whole uncertainty inside. Even at zigzags, apparently posing as a fiction(trick)ist or somewhat, I am only a package of toilet paper got to act – out. But I design the kerns… Although you surely "liven’t", we seem so suited, so incredibly alike, so you replenish my sources, and dance me to that gorgeous slice of… (in)coherence. A creature. In such a Beautifugly Land – charming and wobbly. With those portraits into sunny days. Our time – enjoyed to infinite of its impossibilities. And duplications. One into another. We both guttering out. Etymologically. Consciously streaming in all those mixed up syntaxes. Our shelf-looking realms. Cloistered. Remote. Yet beating everywhere…
I past-continuous you myself. You future-present coursing me through. When you’ve been created, I will give you legs to overstep the lifeless, cold asphalt. I dress you in a hand-to-hand melancholy, which was to just say, “I’m alive,” “you should be as slippery as you (un)expect some day to not clench my body, but gravitate around.” Your eyes, I painted them black, and it will be to remember leaving things behind. Mouths of cries and whispers, I will give you them all. Head of a non-machine time, that’s what I hope for you, my creature, my gloves. And fingers and hands and hair and nose – even tummy and nails – to smell and taste and touch and envision the opposite – you, my double misfit, why not? I am sick, and mad. You are not blind… “Making plans for today, what shall we do?”
In observance of your perfection my way, all our delusions into that inexistent lightness of being, enduring three or four days adrift on the tiny room of much monotony, and estrangement, but wonder your way, I still can remember your face on the pillow all covered with joy… and tears… both out of bounds, “cheers” down for... You never were, I barely am. But no one could ever touch us.
Alone in the dark of a room, tired of hearing that you and I must exist to gear whatever, or vanish into being that lively we won’t be up to keep up with, and so I run away from you and out of my own nothings. Your (non-)existent smiles at me, they always were that vivid; all those as vague as much as spatial and temporal and bodily sensed whistles you used to blow to my heart turned my reckless misery into giving myself in to love – of dwelling within your pale imaginary face melting into drops of motifs with their colored-grey brushes on-theme – our plans, my deliriums, your evanescence. We died in circles. Yet we never will be. “Making plans for tomorrow, what shall we do?”
That Shadowland made me fictionize you. You flew me to the core. I stumbled over the words. They missed me. I’m a fool, don’t even know how to misunderstand the suitable. I never had an eye spread open enough, or too much lost, to even say: “I like you dressed in white.” Or apart from. Incongruent.
A serious crash? They do not exist at all. If yes, only forged by anyone who has nothing to do with you, and me. Is it overly crude? The pity and the pendulum. A story. A lovely in-between space. No one ever touched us. But you never will… be. I would always… play of dreaming nonsense. The silence. And my insufficient language. I don’t love you for your wreckage, your professed hate, your graveyard pair of pants. My many reasons, treasons, and painted lies – all this verges on a black hole of dazed steps into nothings. But this is what makes me alive. Breathing tum-tum’s inside. L is but a dream. We are but a dream. And dreams, but something exceedingly crude rekindled to dismantle you and me.
This is the way it goes. The Kafkaesque(s). Making plans for today, for our nevers. But nurturing rabbits… They will linger on. In each and every single parcel of my ruins or (mis)adventures. To be vomited up whenever, or just taking my breath away. Replenishing the source. My rabbits. I feed off them.        


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