We are both illusory.]
It's not about worrying where to begin, it's about just where we'll go from here.
We shift from some platonic embrace to holding hands beneath a canopy of twilight,
Staring up at the tiny pinpricks of light above our horizon, all the tiny little flecks
Of diamond dust revolving around us,
We're the smudged and ambiguous center of some stained atlas, the fulcrum
of some stampede of forgotten destinations that shine on us from unfathomable distances.
She digs unpainted, manicured fingernails into the webs of my hand, each one
The individual summit of a long and railish ringer.
Somewhere, in the sickly velvet half-glow of the night, the distance between us grows
And thrives in the margins, waiting to pounce again.
The near silent swish of the fabric, all these moments passing,
The beat of my heart and the gentle rise and fall of her breath
Pushing her clavicle up, only to fall again, like empires of man.
There are times when I'd like to know exactly what she's thinking,
It's Friday and we're all drinking,
All celebrating something, and I know, off in that dark distance,
There are flooded fields of brown and gold and pink thriving in her mind,
I want to know what turns, what's motivating
That pretty little head of hers.
She looks at me and says,
You will never find me,
You'll never cross me,
To lose me,
Under these skies,
And she's screaming from the sight of me,
Believe me babe
It won't make this any easier
We could have been so close,
It never made a bit of sense,
It won't make it any easier.
You will never find me.
We call the dog Golgotha.