we speak a kind of arcane language a sort of semantic geometry in which the shortest distance between two points is a circle/ it is blood that moves the body, words are not meant to stir the air only/ they are capable of moving greater things/ i remember what it's like to be in love before any of love's complexities or realities or disturbances have entered to dilute it's splendor and challenge it's perfection/ rather than a universe of neatly reciprocating pairs, love and love returned/ fluttering through space and time symmetrically like pairs of butterfly wings. instead we get chains of yearning which sprawl and meander and culminate in an infinite number of dead ends/ what is the point of being everywhere but seeing nothing. are these places no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps in retrospect?/ memory becomes a partner i nurture it hold it, dance with it./ we will lead our own lives but be a constant in each other's/ monochromatic colors of greyscale, is that not what we all are?
xx
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