the quiet game

x loves,
not lovers,
x loves
too late for caresses,
too late for ohs
and o
and o
and stretch it out
into the infinite
because now it's
too late,
will never occur

we play the quiet game

she doesn't speak to me,
I don't speak to her

______
(Ramsey)

-------
You have caught the sadness of a failed love--the last two lines are eloquent with loss. I like the brevity of this. JFC
-------
Beautiful.
Did you see my reply to you on #15428?

-------
Yes... thank you. The dream has the makings of a strange one. And I've wanted
to comment upon it, but as always I shall talk in the coded ambiguities of a poem-

such a confluence
in the turning, twisting
chemical

the contrails coming
and staying,
their hues are
more diverse than just the
white of eyes

so this is what a
fragment of your sky
looks like,

I was born assuming,
so with this
binocular imagination,
it seems that
your sleeping sentences
are sunsetting forever

much like mine

morpheus keeps
to the truth of hues,
painting the streets
of your inner literature
with the exact colour
of an aura

the bodies
may dissolve
in your nowheres
of dream,
but the
proof of each's existence
is still revealed
like some
psychic cezanne

distracted,
i shall babble
of how
her face and name
are found in the strangest
of places,

and I think
apparitions
should be left alone
(with my respect
imbued carefully here)

you should know
that
what I came
to announce
was the impossibility
of such a thing
(you mentioned)

would you understand
that this imbroglio
of emoting
won't even let me
fly these arrows straight?

crooked they shoot,
and crooked they answer
-------
like the sage of old
I burned my commentaries

the great the good the dead
the ashen sky
those exact same contrails you imagined
inhaled the acrid woolen plumes

as I intoned:
this (arms to the sides) is my beginning
this (hands raised in front) my middle
this (drowning eyes) my end

this (a measured gaze, my wryest smile) the quantum space
between us, petrochemtrails mingling
alchemy of wrought and twisted language our bastard birthright,
chewed, swallowed, spat out
and somehow
still singing

listen:
a certain summer,
hug of sun, nuzzling caress of
crystaline sparkling air

days that sprang to light
like rainbows in the hazy mist
of lawn sprinklers

weeks of haunting tides,
saltwater spume,

my hopeless tears,

the rattling box of my heart
containing [magician's flourish] nothing

nothing

.
.
.
Tricky P
.
My respect for your work increases pretty much daily, btw.