Arabesque


everything is a kick and a slap the world revolves around it, the harsh and critical unending jest of reality and his twists and his turns, turning: a motion i and my body long to fall into. then the distance comes and it is surprisingly wanted and needed and i am its circumstance, bitter, but true and he is mine and we are one together and in that togetherness know only ourselves, know only me. and i want to know sanctity and the peaceful bonding of one person to another, casual or otherwise and so far it has otherwise been, but openness is a concept and i am unable to accept it through eyes no less cloudy than the car windows 6:00am monday morning. the world is flat, i know it no more or no less by its lines, following them, marking them wildly for what they are and cursing them for it: and i long so sincerely to not be afraid of you, to not indulge myself in that fear and to not think otherwise than what i know to be true (and that truth is a peace-keeper), but now there is questioning and wondering, burdening myself and knowing my own limitations, knowing them deeply through the roots of the earth herself that go back into me: then facing them, boldly, with no remorse: and i turn to you. and i am short, no taller than your shoulders, and nothing i ever do could be enough, could match that (though i try) and the world is wary, i am too, and if you are, if you are, if you truly are, relieve me in all ways, i would completely drop (if only beneath the floor to give you something to stand on but do it kindly)
there are no answers and nothing to profoundly stick to, to believe in, or to rest faith in nightly, lowering the candles, releasing yourself to the knowing atmosphere that knows why you've come and where you're headed.