the inability to capture
adequately in words

what the eye softly caresses

a moment of childhood temporarily
smiling two adults

in the dim light
on this very couch, but quite far
away


her gentle strokes travel across the room

and the music slowly underlines
the necessity of this very moment
of this one kiss

the cuddling that persists


through closing times

and through the eyes of tired people

people who wish this place stayed open
for just a few moments longer

to savour the little moments of her hand
against his hair

the essence of completing


is one of escapism


of emotions well-adjusted


to the finite reality of things



an unavoidable skepticism


shadowing


the night's little pleasures.

a reprise of emotions

a little recapitulation

of love



and of cadence


of memories
of speaking


the things that are hardest
to find


to separate




to write out




and clear your mind


of weasel-words, fibs, and exaggerations

-reality stripped to its knees-




a simplicity



an act of retaining

the least striking moments


of life's little minuet.

once
I knew I loved you

because of the way
you smelt my hair


I knew

I had found in you

a million ways of touching bliss



a thousand clichés
our every kiss
every stroke
our every sunday morning

(and every lie)




you say

how beautiful -

but I'm not there
to listen



the ground beneath me
turns into

mud

and as I kick and shout and spit

you're still looking for the flowers


you were playing a losing game

time to go back inside

and stop giving shit
back to the world


it's time to wipe the dust
off your face; grab

responsibility by its hair
and claim it yours


and as you cry

and stab yourself with blame

try and crack a smile
and know the burden of

hating


the man
you once loved.

unfamiliar ceilings -

the sky


openings for a soul


must we know that we will die?



to force the sea grow still

in the prospect of saving
one wave

(a trough without
a crest)





all perishes









and death comes in the form of
tears

in the eyes of the people who love you



(along deserted roads

life never lies
never really hides from you

the necessity of loss)

a familiar face

a mother
(a face)

on a stick

on a pedestal
on a pedestal


on a pedestal


gazing at the brightness with which the future


comes

(it comes from your 2 o'clock)




wistful, breezy - you don't even know it's there
but she insists, still looks for it - oh!

there's more
future





marble

it doesn't twist

running to the beach in the still of the night
(half-stirred thoughts and


a lonesomeness

to remain)


frail at the strength of tears

to be swept away
by the smallest wind



and then

moments, when -


the realisation of the reality of things
gradually renders you

meaningless







to feel the burden of a birdsong
you no longer enjoy


and cry


cry
for the loss of


love


(scream is
non-vibrato)


ce n'est pas jolie -

c'est beau.