Shadows; words lurking in the in-between spaces, demonstrations of my counter complexity
Maintaining a conversation, however ill advised, brings with it the difficulty of understanding my inner self. Brings with it the need to clarify, at least in words, my present physical and mental states, however troubled they are to get to the surface
There is a nearby indiscriminate pain, slight but present, a pain of what I take to be of absence; near and in my shoulders, near and in my gut, near and throughout the whole of my body, near and in and among the veiled shrouds of my absently defiant yet mostly mistaken mind
These are the bubbles of joy and guilt that bounce along my arterial veins, just as the surf turns to the oceans with the expectancy of incredible life, just as the clouds turn from the sky to leave the transparent blue, just as those Saturday mornings opened with the opening of a white cotton blouse
I read your seventeen words, twenty-one thousand times, without any hint of desperation
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
