The bad stuff's easier to believe.
You ever notice that? a pretty woman asks Richard Gere in bed. Memory, a belief about the past, the bad stuff's easier to remember. Blunt bitter anger, sweet sorrow of planned parting, weeping to have what I feared to lose. Thoughts of you are as a death that cannot choose to go out but linger in in indecision. Precipitous precipitate (from my eyes) suspended in sorrow, my image of you refuses to grow up and grow old and grow out. (In my mirror with moldings of memory, this face is still framed by that old haircut my reflexion in your glance gave me. Like favorite frayed hair and dyed jeans, I haven't grown out of you yet.) If there'd been only effervescent happiness, laughing gas of you would have bubbled away, been exhaled or evaporated long ago into the spaces we breathe and release. But these feelings clutch, follow the four letters of your name my mind mentions fifty times a day till I do not even need to think of you discretely because buoyed by melancholy memories you float vaguely on the uncontrolled vagues of language. Buckled to tragic vision of a former, better time, you swash about the ocean inside my skull and wash up on the smooth beach of my cheeks. You diffuse across the membrane of concious and unconciousness. Dissolved in a dilute deperession solution, which true to its liquid properties expands till it fills the shape of the container, the vessel, vessicles I am, you are the omniscent, omnipotent, omnipresent grammar of unspoken speeches.
But on the roof at sunset, the church corner clock (and all the clocks in this city) chimes, "Oh let not Time deceive you, even You cannot conqueor Time." The first love leaks away, I clip loose locks of Greek grief for you and the firm soil of self wins of the watery mane of tears streaming from the head of hopes floated on your shoulder. In the wake of no one, I sunk my heady hopes in you. Hearty hopes I transplanted to your chest. Hardy hopes, they were weeds watered with salt which did not shrivel or burst but sprouted dandalion wine and saltwater toffee I sucked and sucked on, endless in its hidden source yet never ending hunger. Yet, the river wears the suit ability of you out and down current washes the stains away. The water wheel turns faster and the memories, easy wish-washy long lived longing and hard happy, splash off the sides, sink under the strength of the stream of new thoughts, uncertain whether they will ever appear again. You will surface late and soon will be plunged under the great flood; gates have been openned to wide world. You are an antidilluvian and it is a new era, Noah, I will not be your ark. No one's going two by two. After dark, it's single file for now.
But on the roof at sunset, the church corner clock (and all the clocks in this city) chimes, "Oh let not Time deceive you, even You cannot conqueor Time." The first love leaks away, I clip loose locks of Greek grief for you and the firm soil of self wins of the watery mane of tears streaming from the head of hopes floated on your shoulder. In the wake of no one, I sunk my heady hopes in you. Hearty hopes I transplanted to your chest. Hardy hopes, they were weeds watered with salt which did not shrivel or burst but sprouted dandalion wine and saltwater toffee I sucked and sucked on, endless in its hidden source yet never ending hunger. Yet, the river wears the suit ability of you out and down current washes the stains away. The water wheel turns faster and the memories, easy wish-washy long lived longing and hard happy, splash off the sides, sink under the strength of the stream of new thoughts, uncertain whether they will ever appear again. You will surface late and soon will be plunged under the great flood; gates have been openned to wide world. You are an antidilluvian and it is a new era, Noah, I will not be your ark. No one's going two by two. After dark, it's single file for now.
