my palms are made of gasoline,
made to interpret souls,
or calculate paths outlined by fortune.
your anything but easy-going gaze
penetrates my spine
as apprehensive glances gambol
amongst the star-struck night.
you commend well thought-out silence
and talk of bicycles and boats,
your hands are buried in the mud,
meticulously constructing moats bound to castles,
you dig endlessly for fear and fight.
stand against the could-bes, need-bes, might.
an absence of light never caused a pause in action,
never filled the nervous night with parasitic vengeance,
merely an avenue paved with lust,
a curiosity so deep it lies in trenches.
each night when your syllables lessen
do the dreams return.
sitting at the foot of your bed,
I bear the brunt of that dreary night-time whisper:
neglect, demise, pity, harm, and unsung wishes,
all of which you'd never show, but say quite well.
imagination conquers,
and I shed torn walls
wash away mirrors
and paint the room in my honesty.
brutally pulverize each ounce of hubris
belonging to your brow,
only to break moats,
make them crumble from drought,
and terrorize the castle walls
with words, wands, and bows,
to set free the lively man I see.
well, with the air-borne illness of apathy
I rest my suitcase at your bare feet.
the road filled with stoned paths,
and bushes thick with thorns.
a tattered, mind-made, hand-made city
illuminates the night behind you,
making me blind to stars,
to any atmosphere at all
except the full almond eyes that lie on display
laden in enigmatic memory,
before me, they glance at the suitcase
and only walk away.
etcetcetc
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