drawing the curtain in confession with a handgun

I know I’m not by myself when I’m writing to you. Almost in a sense, a desperate set of epithets hooked onto your name which breathed slowly I can just imagine your response.

I read a review recently from someone who claimed they always hated poetry. I’m of the belief they’d never read it. Not a word from you or I that was honest or villainous or parked in the hours between rigor mortis and placid flaccidity.  We could bounce off of those two walls for eons. I think the last time I left a little skull.

The human experience is fucking treacherous; so what if we’re all not happy to be here until we find each other? If [if] if we find each other. My last little flicker of optimism says that’s not out of the question.

So why does it already feel too late?


2 thoughts on “drawing the curtain in confession with a handgun

  1. Its still morning ☀️& the sun has moved aside my window so my own eyes would try to find each thing enchanting too, in a dimmer view…If we just glide along the surface of the trail someone else has placed their whole weight beneath to set aflow…well, I’d rather look into their face than be on my way with just the amusement of sliding, gliding— ‘til the trail grows still, without that one’s love encouraged, even more-so, ever-gifted, ever-given—For a false end, I’d let my whole fantasy road be upended…💕🏞💕

    Liked by 1 person

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