sure as death

I gave you an invitation. I knew you wouldn't come. I knew we were past that.

I gave it to you in quiet desperation, trying to tell you that I was alright with you. But I know you're not alright with me.

*

I have written you letters and tried to speak to you and even made eye contact (which you shrug off as easily as you did me). I have told you time and again "I'm sorry" and never known what I was apologizing for, just trying to crack you open like an egg, gently, reverently. I want to see what is inside of you, barricaded behind your cool granite eyes and in your iambic brain.

*

I used to watch you, and you used to watch me. We would orbit like moons around each other, gravity pulling us surely as death.

I think I broke free before you did.

Now I wander the cold universe. The stars are distant and do not flicker. I find hollow solace in my dust and rocks and shadows.

*

I gave you an invitation, giving you me back, if only you would accept.

You didn't come, but I was expecting that.

I've done what I can. The rest is up to you.

terminal

the sun, in solemn bronze sentiment,
wraps arms around rainclouds.

fluorescent bleach washes the hypnotic floor;
crystal plates stutter plasmic faces.

i sit, sore from standing, quiet feet.
my eyes ungrow in the fake half-light,

peel to my knees, while families find peace
at last in bony leather rows.

to fly is to move, to sleep is to die.
even as i remember Phaeton,

i am chasing the sun.
time will glue us together.

"be yourself"

i thought words
could never be
useless, until

you showed me
a few of yours,
and now i'm



losing faith.

the monks and i,
we understand
silence.


so
get thee to a nunnery:
why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

lynx-eyed

I've got an idea for a novel/short story/project. It's something vague, but I'm feeling it.

Largely inspired by John the Baptist, Showbread, and Janie's "Age of Reptiles Excerpt", which I've printed out and shall now carry in my notebook, alongside the other printed sheets of bliss.

Here's my first shot in the dark.

-------

b13; 03 Victus:::?
Sunrise like a bleeding scab today. I can feel the air more every day. The rocks are speaking.

When I look behind me I see the blood of my feet. The leather was eaten long ago by the sand, and the stones are sharp.

At night I hear them coming, rustling, scraping across the sun-baked floor of this god-forsaken desolation. The rocks tell me they are not far behind. I must keep moving.

This place is truly forsaken by the gods. They dared not follow me into this field of embers. They have sent lesser, fouler beings after me. I can hear them scraping.

Each day they are closer, or louder, or my hearing grows sharper. But the rocks grow quieter.

I can see something on the horizon, but the vitreous air keeps my hope in a cage. Still, there is something. Call me lynx-eyed. Call me Jonas.