Rampant & Golden

On nights when Netflix streams are turbid with
smog and the taste of waiting has hints of apple
cider, I stumble on you like September stumbles
on fall. I want to be your friend. I want to run
parallel to your cubist sunrises and draw graffiti
on the white marble silence that stands between
us. Sometimes it’s your name and sometimes
it’s stories too long tucked away you could see
where the moths have made an opening. The
incomplete retelling is to them like a glue that
reconciles mistakes made in the past. From back
when this place was nothing but a picture on a
postcard. And the love you loved was a question
akin to Schrödinger before they opened the box,
and I was busy finding my next beautiful
destruction. Two mutually exclusive circles, like
a Venn diagram. And then, a verse of Exodus
that reads like a chapter of the Psalms. And
now the hours are plaited like Egyptian hair, but
all the intersection points are smoothed by fear
and taboo. As if there weren’t enough loneliness
in the world.