Heed need and forever save the paper hearts she cut in descending undiminished order smaller from palm to thumbnail and placed like a simple breezeblown windfall scatter on the winter pillow like autumn hadn’t ended, an imperfect moment’s so completely perfect act of perfect imperfection, which is precisely how this kind of ambling love line does traverse,

crossing and curving and making vital intersections like how I wrote it in blocky-lettered pencil on my once so baleful walls so blank so I could walk by and know content, and know she would one day too walk by and stop and see and we’d together go on gliding by through a dreamworld made up of real things and full as if seven lifetimes long with no tally counts or keeping straight and narrow track,

go on like that through forest and over hill and past dilapidation, through inhaled city scene and rivers seen and mountains in the distance, through graveyards and birthplaces of quiet majesty and note and mere plain antecedent and seaside scent and something lost and found and meant—

straight past and weaving through watching we’ll go and back again, knowing it’s all always just rehearsal, knowing just is just another word for unfinished and then it’s not so bad at all, knowing a word is just another lookout point more or less innately placed for balance and rhythm and semblance and contour, just figures and traces of sounds and places and towns and fringes and whole goddamn lives cut out so simply with tender enamored scissors

and maybe after much is said and some things done our lives will be left stuck propped up together with lovely sticky wishful knowing glue like purpose tattooed on the lithe and lissome back of indifferent happy accident, up between the shoulderblades, up where its bearer can only see it mirrored and inverted but the angle doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter a single little bit at all.

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About mischa

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