it is the talk
of things.
worldly.
that of love
has passed
to the netherworld
of dead languages.
nobody would
know the difference.
not one would find out
the compulsions
of small talk
that hold us together.
we are prisoners
of our narrative.
freedom seems undesirable.
though necessary.
but then
this now strange notion
of 'us'
was borne of desire.
why should it be
any different now?
let us be.
as we are.
in fermented desire.
frozen in time.
fixed in story.
may the lie of together
outlive us both.
No comments:
Post a Comment