Response to Your Goodbye You were always beautiful, like an old window when a frost throws dancers off the glass at sunrise. You were always that one who could send me spinning in surprise. Your hands were the art.
You walk so slowly from this, separating yourself as if from a shadow. Keep moving, run. It will always be behind you, remembering.
how often is it that words collide into a perfectly metric meter, drawn together by little more than gravity, always running on systems of each other?
(because we, we collided into this perfectly metric meter drawn together by little more than gravity and pulled apart by nothing that can’t be held by forty-two cents, by black checkered fabric, by instant recognition, by the sound of words and worlds colliding into a perfectly metric meter, humming a melody that will never be heard by the outside world).
it happens once. alone and only, it is ours: a painted philharmonic playing a perfectly metric meter in this 7/8 time.
Comments 4
You were always beautiful,
like an old window
when a frost throws dancers off the glass
at sunrise.
You were always that one
who could send me spinning
in surprise.
Your hands
were the art.
You walk so slowly from this,
separating yourself as if
from a shadow.
Keep moving,
run.
It will always be behind you,
remembering.
Reply
a seven year symphony.
how often is it
that words collide
into a perfectly metric meter,
drawn together by
little more than gravity,
always running
on systems of each other?
(because we,
we collided
into this perfectly metric meter
drawn together by
little more than gravity
and pulled apart by
nothing that can’t be held
by forty-two cents,
by black checkered fabric,
by instant recognition,
by the sound
of words and worlds colliding
into a perfectly metric meter,
humming a melody that
will never be heard by the outside world).
it happens once.
alone and only,
it is ours:
a painted philharmonic
playing a perfectly metric meter
in this 7/8 time.
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