You are an eldritch flower: physical
static in the air, pollen
hissing, a radio boiling over.
Your noise is white,
born from ellipses; your fruit
grown from vines in the bay
window: flesh the sun. Turning, I shutter myself
inside a zig-zag world of shadows
with macabre stroganoff
sitting in a president’s dish
by the bed and a blanket of
grey and white, but despite
my best efforts you are here.
You are my tinnitus
tiding over from the
flabbergast; you are my dread
shoring up from the
fascination; you are my shame
broiling up from the
passion. And yet
anxiety is my virtue,
not yours. You are my guardian;
I am what I am, and attribute
as a lion does bones to the ground
my pain to the world. From the bed I watch
you in the window and wonder
at the feel of scratchy grey wool
on my skin.
Ah, my love is the world. But what is the world if I have built up too much of a mental roadblock to see it? I say I forget, but that is to explain away that I remembered so distinctly what I must do that my obstacles became as titanium. It is all right, though. I will be fine. All I need is a little love and time.