at this moment, huddled in the dark
a snowless winter sky
drifting towards serotonin lulls
I wish I was reading a love poem
written for me.
the pale decay of shared syllables
and sounds, like dust
on an oft-played record
the static of ease
and you would’ve seen me for this simplicity
the hopeful sweeps, where the melancholy sleeps
and they pull together to form
the undulating muscles of laughter.
it is the slow walk, with words in absentia
that steadies the breathing, the gaze into.
a million stars could not power that warmth
don’t let something miniscule
spark the most mammoth of entropies.
if all time exists at the same time,
then why can we stumble all over the world
in such abject states of loneliness?
and I would hear you,
for your ability to judge me,
so much less, than all the voices in my head do.
hear you for your very rhythm.
you would nod,
when I said we could still create light,
even inside a black hole,
while still understanding it might be invisible
whence we retracted into our shells.
that mutual stare into the cosmos
as you read aloud,
words of love in coloratura