Hyperionic-Xmissions

the blue light of the bus shelter summons the ghosts inside you. the near biblical sound of snow; sleeping rain, shifting on the sidewalk. we take the bus when we want to drink or when we want to experience new people. we take the longest route home and watch the snow fall and the people talk. (grace me with a small plant that i can tell to grow and i’ll be happier than with a thousand dollars in a card.) and i take the bus to have silence and solace. gift me with a last-line bus ride at one in the morning and i’ll spill all my secrets. i’ll write poems about the snow and be grateful. listen to how an alone man sighs

yes, i am a creature of the sea, it's why the sunset follows me. oh dear, my dear, what you must know; the place i will drown is the land, but no dear no, not ever in the undertow. yes, the land has books and botany and bees, but i will only find home, find solace, by the sea.

you were occult to me, the fine line drawn between chemistry and fiction. because you read blindly, about how i believe in science, not god, and then the fog clears your head. i believe in the things i read, blindly. you were occult to me. you made me blind to what i read. i read the curving of your neck, the incandescent swoon of every curse you put on me. the things i read don’t exist anymore, they are past they are past they are past it is the cult of you,

you were standing in the lamplight with all the grace and incident of the black sea and i sat with a scrape of skin pressing into the carpet uncomfortably. a shift of light moved us quietly into arms, some forgotten touch newly placed. the only stirring in all the world was the moving of our chests which at their crests would touch—a faithful mythology of meeting. titular gestures carried italics and lost their momentum mid-air. we were xerics of this arid landscape brimmed with sea air. the shifts of light moving our bodies glared ceremoniously, our puckering sensations forming a stunning tear. we danced as statues with flesh a