we are the leftovers of love.
its second-thoughts burn in us,
spurring the very substance
we are worn out of -
loneliness and desire.
staggeringly,
in lovers' usage,
we quit ourselves
as this room we’re leaving
- babe, have you got the keys?
in a world as we don’t know it,
a landscape escapades
against a listless car window.
I reflect about this moment
which looks itself
on the skin of a waterway
where bathe the images
of all still and moving things:
both the sinfully living and
the rigorously dead
soar absorbed on this
barren inner sky:
water,
the odourless path
that walks on your fingers.
I try to take a grip at, but,
elusive as a shadow, this moment
never drowns slowly enough,
and no sooner than I think of it,
finds an exit and fades away.
eventually, I am reassured,
we would lose it completely
in the errancies of memory,
over a bench some other time
some public place, as the idle
byproducts of an eternity
our souls will never
bother to aspire.
the journey
will keep traveling
only in a thing
as blind as an eye.
but we try
and, right now,
riding in the wake
of a rail by the gravel,
we resurface
on our unknowing,
like the ghostly
hallucinations of a lake.
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