So beautiful it almost hurts, I say mellow and dramatic, and then you come doctora it away. Your sweet mutual inclusion, my assembler, telling me how we me and you see singularity in everything because we feel it always and I stand at awed attention like a toy tin man filled up soldier marveling at how you always have the simplest, clearest solution, wound up in my contradictions, taking singular heart.

I tried to warn you that when you look at me like that my parts will supernova into tiny particles that only your love glue can re-adhere and you’ll color me in, color me bit by bit according to the numbers only you see on my outlined parts and every word look touch thought says it’s only your and you, darkly.

To know my stories is to possess me so here, it’s simple: I’ll tell you all you’ll take. And the first goes more or less like this: once upon a time the moon hung from all the strings attached and the trees were upside down like giant feather dusters, roots like lightning in negative, and the stars in my eyes were flicker-shined constellations, and the sea felt like home because I knew I’d never sink and I have to say all that because it might as well be true since I’ve no recollection of what the world around us did the first time you kissed me.

Proust thought love brings out the worst in us, makes us craven, servile, paranoid, that we’re only sustained by our desires’ failures to satisfy. I tell you I think that sentence sounds academic and it should have something about how I love the worst of you cravenly and that I’ll serve the best of you with irrational paranoia over the thought of wasting a moment doing anything less and Marcel can go fuck himself.

Love is a language I thought I almost forgot but realized I’d never heard spoken till you told me the funniest bad joke I’d heard in a dozen years plus four. So it makes perfect sense when I say in no uncertain terms from across the bed speaking in certain tongues come to me and I’ll love the hell out of you till the earth burns up and turns to space dust and we make a new asteroid out of what’s left, love glued.

I opened to never and not wanting and there you were, everwanted, and we’re back to two things making one compound sonnet 17 like mer-maid unhyphened and with single hand on chest that feels like double mine and I’m convinced you’re here all the time, my phantom limb and the clouds roll in to wrap us up in what precipitates till we’re both soaked through.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.