It wasn't just that day. The totality of expression. There is truth at the heart of every misapprehension. If I laid it down, I would still be a coward. So I built a fortress, I made it up. It is hidden even from me. As it goes from hand to hand. Your sickly frame against his interest. Memory is just the encoding of fantasy. So much to unlearn. The primacy of emotion, how it activates wrong intention. Your interest against a historical dissatisfaction. I was warned; I had time.
It was so new that none of us saw it coming. Selective memory and articulation. Your gaze drifts off where I try to tell you who I am. A fiction, a secret transferred. There are stones in your stomach, blood on your lips. How contingent everything is on thought. Here we are.
Storm clouds on the horizon. A string.
"You put it in."
Removed from context
any other thing.
Your hands on my face and the vacuous show you put on.
There is no heat where once there was heat. Your good humor a weapon.
I imagine you with your hand in his hand,
There where I first saw you is fraught with tension.
The waves, the waves.
It was a sense over time. Something amiss. Your words surrounded me and my own voice receded. An irruption. Something spoken. I was supposed to be something other than this. I will whisper in your ear, be a fly on the wall. Amid all the delirium, truth.
He fortified his lies with the comfort of rationality. Even in the face of it, he still wanders around, looking for someone to notice him. There will be other times, other decisions to be made. If I showed you the way, would you believe me? It is labyrinthine, sprawling. It belies the secret that I placed in front of you. Statistically improbable. I think I would like to stop. Your fist and so many things against a wall of apathy.
He speaks with a forked tongue. Would his hand in yours mean anything at all? It's a matter of invention, all of thought brought to bear. The situation, a cold day in winter. The insanity of belief. Another world is possible and I am watching, always, for its sure conception. I rely too heavily on displacement, metonymy. Just let go.
The sound of a rushing creek after the rain.
He will not budge. To live in a fantasy is to be open to the possibility of neurosis.
And it all falls to pieces, all of it. If I knew of a way to fix it, would he let me?
What is the significance of such rapture in solitude, the weight of a heart in your hands?
I thought of it, then thought better of it. Your hand traces where he has been. For a thing to be true, it is necessary for it to exist. There is always another option.