I wish I could capture an existence
and keep it for eternity:
ethereal, eternal, tastes
upon my dried up tongue.

Rewinding isn’t an option, and
going onward can only bring
stale heartache and a
forced shift in attentions

and I don’t even know what I want.

I don’t know if it’s you,
I don’t know if it’s this, but
I know if I have to change my thoughts,
they’ll probably just crumble.

Let it go, if that’s what you’re good at.
Isn’t that what you say?

But I know that when I do,
when I bring myself to let it go,
I’ll have to let it go in
directions my heart doesn’t know.

So instead, I’ll keep it forever,
twisted in my traitorous bedsheets.
Intangible pieces that I’ll share with no one;
they’ll only devour us and spit us back out.

I’ll just hold onto it here,
and look on it during windy nights,
when love lives across the ocean,
and I’m riding rays of liminal lights.

Covetous

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