I lie when I say I want to talk to you.
My love, the truth is
I want you to talk to me -
ask the question,
beseech my namesake,
request the response I spent a morning practicing for.
This life is a practiced answer,
with so many maybe's when asking to step over
a descriptively indescribable place-marker;
a touch despite breaking fingertips.
Each begged answer erodes sensation.
They spot the sight with ashen memories.
Look away! Let them scatter
and the mind ramble about true existence
forming from dissolved monotony,
Answers are monetary to provide for the I, but not the we;
the only way to see the path is to double an eye.
It’s not to turn into double vision
blurred into a beat, that cascades down
emotional remission,
slipping at intervals forgotten,
where these harmonics were whispers
of a suicidal goddess lost to the wind
by jumping headfirst...
cause it’s easier to exist as shifted pieces
than be responsible for the sum of your parts
to have an answer for someone you called your counterpart.
Will my words turn back time
to when my mind was raw?
Instead of overcooked,
instead of baked to perfection.
Self reflection turns to rhythmic superstition
Where an opening rhyme was a ramble
An offering, an inviting sample
Of a poet, liar, lover on a voyage to discover
Why I want to talk to you.