I hereby declare myself a believer of symmetry. The days that dry up our tempest carry the commotion of your lips, because your eyes are worth a thousand years of winter. And all these centuries you’ve flashed before my eyes, while I’ve been mad at you for being exactly like me. It’s the curse of lovers, the hindrance of emotions, the perpetual detriment of action.
You know it will be cold Eastwick, but you don’t have to worry, as I am the one who’ll be left naked waiting for spring to come. Go on and be the word of oil and sprout your seeds into their ground; I’ll be given the anointing of the sick.
All the hurricanes I’ve caused,
brought the fire that will lighten all your words.
Bred from the thunder.
All the spaces I have found,
they will conquer all the panic from your sores.
For you to ponder.
In the moments I’m inspired,
hope will color all the faces of desire.
All for you.
[…]
There are twenty-three dissertations about what exists and what is just a mere delusion. The tentacles we manifest can control all but the logic inside our correction. The laughter we built for them to appreciate your companionship can’t be the composition of the bedlam we call time.
It is not synaptic, it is not biological. It is what we want to construct from skin. It is what we suck from souls.
Everything is holy, but not any more holier than you or me. How can you give attributes to the contexts you can’t possibly synthesize? Do you believe in the mythology of sight? How is a cataclysm any more symbolic than a kiss you’ve hold.
To me, there is not such a thing as faith. There can be hope of not losing the fabric of my memoires when I’m gone, but I acknowledge that it is just a truth based on fear.
It is in humanity the causality of repetition. All of us have suffered the consequences of past mistakes and nocuous diffractions. It’s cycling towards no end, it spirals out from steadiness, it violates my urge to be baptized, and it calls elation to incarcerate our soul into this prison made of the promises you were.
It’s not the first time we’ve left litter in our relationship, but somehow I think I’ve known you from before.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. This holy ceremony has remained in their collective memory since the day of your confirmation. Your father would have wanted to deliver you to your altar, but his voice is now long gone. It’s because of these timeless details in your grammar I feel so compelled to convert into your faith. Your chants can expel the nuances of the serpents, boiling choirs of dissected horns.
How many times have you felt the silence inject you with awe? It bristles while enabling greedily my urge to devour this absenteeism. So give me whatever you can feed me with, I'll be glad to swallow all of our chances to be united. It is frail like the years before your libation, but I'll be careful not to mess with the permutations.
And you know how your mind can't cycle through the same scenario endlessly, but you're still trying to open the loop of certainty. It is not what we had foreseen for you or your children, so make a choice. Your lexicon needs to be heard before it is too late.
When it comes to finding a greater truth, it all breaks down into monosyllabic answers. But if you try to envision the hindsight of your given question, one must ask oneself what was the phonetic flow that fathered their response.