~
I yearn to hate the night, to grimace,
gnarl at its vacancy-
the way it shudders when I enter
clean summer air, naught of stars and
devoid of arctic cinemas,
never taming me.
For tonight strives to make me its
traditional lover- upon a repeated wind,
a young hand held securely
by her father's, when all I want
is to be taken aside by la luna, instead.
I still, all too prosaically, taste
the bits of caramelized ciphers,
trifling existences, pounded into
nonfiction for pleasure and disdain,
too creamy, too spurious
to want to lick my lips in a new
shameless way.
Why did you pompously order the
largest size, the size that screamed
you had to have it- it instead of
wanting the very best when you've just
spent an evening with me.
My heart fades, can it cringe?
As I try to look away from blissful
couples and embracing gazes...
can I keep talking, keep saying
how much this night means,
when I only crave to halt where
I am
and picture quiescence?
I don't recall the last day where I
sobbed into my nightgown, hours after
you had gotten up to shut the lantern off,
hours after anyone would realize
my lights were still burning,
as fragile eyes seemed like a
deluge.
Tonight is the night that floods
into me, coveting that I keep
searching for a misplaced soul,
like mine,
to discover a girl crawling from
a jungle toward womanhood.
Is it possible to ache from too much
sleep- enervated from following too many
romantic notes film amid my harrowed
glances?
My legs fret, they need to move,
but move away from where?
Here? From whence the wild ropes
of forest elements could
see I'm troubled and keep
twisting my wrists among them?
Among hallucinogenic thoughts
I could join...
Night is too engraved, it won't brush
upon my calves, won't compose someone
who will listen to my sensitivities, then say
I will be heard forthwith.
Conciliatory night,
sacrificing for everyone, but I...
It regards me with ceremonious manners;
It angers me, places my brows in a
tight, pleading position,
stomach hurling in vertigo,
to think that no one seems to gaze
past the mirage of a happy-go-lucky
girl. How many tries do I have
until my smile is not cheerful,
but passionately tormented
by eyes that don't look once more,
DEEPER.
I am certain it's just pity
freely ambling. How I want
it to have a mentality
of its own, so I won't entrap
others in my heart's tiny stain glass
windows, that conjointly
speak.
You were the one I rode with
admirably,
represented by Vivaldi's
Four Seasons
yet solstice has shown a fifth
concerto, another season
that has caught me between
giving up,
or making this division count-
to let you know what our
silences mean to me...
that there's more than your
voice thinking.
A night of never incends;
to say goodnight to my eyelids
and finish myself betwixt
clinging satin sheets
that have too much scent of
my understandings, and will
no longer be a luxury,
but unbreathable.
Nighttide rises, then
plummets further into my
essentiality.
Now, it's fifty three minutes past midnight
yet morning doesn't approach with
any care, it just tickles my throat,
invites itself upon awakening dreams,
and then tells me to
evanesce
and be removed from the
reflection the night
cast dejectedly, upon myself,
for no one but me
to bear.
