Tag Archives: byron

beauty in moving

There is a beauty in moving; in not lying in your arms all day. Simple beauty in escaping your stillness and turning with cogs that move steady and send the heart pulsing. The beauty of turning with the clockwork; escaping illusion. When there are no illusions.

Like Manfred on the Swiss alps; all-seeing and sublime. Beauty all-encompassing. Visible. Visceral.


outside looking in

Years ago you found me on a kitchen floor and I should have known then that was a bad sign. Four years ago and you were younger. Back then you were young and I was just a baby. A year later you took me to a show and we sat on a rooftop after, far too late into the night. I left. You called and called and wanted me to come back. I biked the wrong direction for blocks.

And then another year passed or maybe just a few months and we talked about existentialism and I told you I thought our entire lives are just trying to prove that some of it’s real, even a sliver. You took my photo and I told you things I’d never told anyone. You have a way that gets me to tell you things I’ve never told a soul.

Years have passed and I still want to tell you things I might never tell another soul. And if the world didn’t spin us into the daylight and if I didn’t have to spin wheels uphill every morning I would just get high with you and whisper my soul to float above us. I think you would see it as it lingers up there.

I can’t keep getting high in your room with the covered up window and the drugs in every crevice and the children in the closet and in the hallway. I can’t let you hold me while I want to run because the world can’t stop just because I’ve let my soul free; allowed it to escape and drift above us. Can’t escape come down.

Somewhere just below your bedroom ceiling, float demons. When you look at me they scream freedom sometimes escape. Can’t let your gaze pull my insides right outside of me.

But you’re no Manfred and we don’t have mountains, only cluttered apartments and flickering streetlights. No, maybe you’re more like Keats and I’m trapped in your urn. Small and outside us and captured and sealed within something else. Still.


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