you among the architecture

you among the architecture



“these are the bad years,” you tell me,
looking somewhere off into the distance,
into the hydrogen and carbon, the silicone
as if it could be measured, including
names and numbers that bear no meaning,
like the number of times it took  you
to learn to be your own company

it was during of these enduring
summer days where all the seasons
merged— spring flaunted all its fall
colors, but winter kept its face—

I remember your crooked teeth, my
shattering into existence

and my mind erupts into a ticking frenzy of seeing
everything material melting into view

names of things and places as I’d never seen them,
(although these are the ways that they are seen)

the when and what it takes for all time to
end like a faint gesture,
barely perceivable, like a
familiar realization, melting its way
into focus—
                (you have fallen in love again.)


I,  it is like
the very center of the universe
filled with the pain enough to make the trees quiver
in their tresses before you,  shaking you with animated life

not the steady, noble pain we both believe in,
but the wide eyed, whirring pain that stirs up everything

(what better place to store it than a human heart?)

and now — it is as if you keep winning the lottery, indefinitely,
but you do not notice until you realize you can always lose,
so that everything around you falls into its place

(you are always one with every place
you wrap your mind around, like a python crushing its sustenance )

and we
the creak and groan of time’s realignment
the split between always and never always becoming;
finer than the shattering of a mirror; granulating like the sand
between my fingers, until it reaches
with a quiet hush,—

each believing to begin each other, and
in believing, so the beginning of love—

I have heard it is to keep us formed a while longer,
like ice chips being perfect fit
for one another; when water waits awaits us.

or it is becoming bird,
to take my place among the clockwork

not knowing the existence that relies
solely on the methodical taking
of forward steps;

being hurt enough to have learnt stillness;  and
we, the turn among the nightingales, each wing
commencing every other, borne with motion.