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In YoursThere is no way my shoes will stay clean.
I go to many places and I never stay still.
And when it rains, puddles form.
So I come across them and stumble through.
If I traded my shoes in for yours,
I do not know if they would fit; they might take over.
And that would be the challenge.
One might think it easy and run full speed.
And if I took that challenge to heart
I might be an apparition with shoelaces untied.
So what is there to learn of
When all of the world walks with rubber feet?
Much of a task are your shoes to me.
And I gander that mine are a pain to your toes, too.
Such comfort, though, isn't there,
To know ours paths will find some way to meet.
Ignoring BlissI rested the tips of my fingers on joy and felt a sensation similar to betrayal.
And on pressing my palm through it I did not feel like falling, I felt thirsty.
My hand did not disappear in the microwave of happiness; it stayed elevated
Before my face, untouched and still, lingering like anything would after finding
Something like this.
So when I pulled my hand away, slowly, to the ends of each nail, my hand stung;
Pins and needles from the separation's anxiety. But what my mind suffered
Was far more indefinable.
I rested the lids of my eyes on the tops of my cheeks and felt something
Close to fatigue, but like a flight as well, of feathered wings that did not
Belong to me.
Without touching joy again, I left it in the air, like my plans to go to Paris.
I left the room I found it in and forgot instantly what pain there was in happiness.
Would something so soft follow me, carried in my wind and will?
Or will joy be kept at bay, with my betrayal and the fossil of my hand
Stuck in its cave
Am A DaughterSuch hazel eyes you have Or so I think you have.
What silk dark hair you have, had, will have.
Those sad eyes you blink with; sad in my sad eyes.
Such tired limbs you hold, or carry, or pull.
To know is to know, but to guess is to hope you know.
To hope is to painstakingly wonder.
Wonder, I do, what voice is yours. Wonder, I do, what hand is yours,
Yet I know your script. With which hand, though,
Do you cast words? Do you cast X's and O's.
What shade of green are your eyes in the light?
What philosophy would you explain
If I asked you how you died and how you will live.
Can I wait, I wonder, another year or more; is too much of my
Creation been performed to tell you about it?
Such hazel eyes I have. What dark hair I have now.
Such sad eyes I blink with. Such tired limbs I carry.
Writing to You from ComatoseI woke up one morning, one unimportant morning, with an unimportant 3 and a 2 and a 7 on a rather unremarkable clock.
The indifference of the occasion, waking before the alarm, was not at all unmentionable, however. And, looking back at it now, as it is twenty minutes later, I wake up again.
This time is different. I remember why I roused from sleep; an altogether trivial event.
And on realizing that everything was real, (my skin being unprotected, my hands empty, my core bent and in the unmistakable form of being cut in two) I shut my eyes and yelled.
It was an unimportantly quiet yell- it came from somewhere I had not been; that place I visited just three days ago and stayed; that coma of being completely broken.
But my eyes work; the eyes that are not looked into anymore, the eyes that are brown now, I am guessing, as they look at the 3 and the 4 and the 7 that snicker in a dim glow of red.
Like those chairs with skis, I rock forward and back; on my knees with a golden pillow in my
Petite FilleIf I could give you a name, I would call you Tristesse because you taste so much like sorrow.
If that would suffice then why am I still just like you? If you know a man's name, you can kill him.
Suicide is not what I had in mind. I would never say ("Kill me.")
If I could give you a name, I would call you Douleur because you feel so much like pain.
If that would be enough then why am I still here? If I get it right, do not I go free?
If freedom were something tangible, it would be his eyes, (the love of my soul.)
Something inside me; it is something irrevocable. I sometimes just give it my own name.
But if I could give it another, I would call it Aimer, because it grows so much like a seed.
If I could grow anything beautiful, it would be ('your love') that made it possible.
If you were even real, and maybe in some year far away you are, I would give you a name.
I would give you a name and change it every day because you look so much like a dream.
Yes, I dream of you, as if you were real
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