05: April 2015 #03 - Carpe Diem
Authored by James Kwapisz
Her eyes— striking and blue green fine lines curling in kisses sinking to the depths of her cosmic abysses— her inverse universes speaking soundless verses reflected in the window beside the divide: the seat she wouldn’t sit in for fear of an unpleasant ride, the chance of our eyes dancing not some removed, prudish jig mother would approve but a telepathic tango to dispel the emphatic Nothing— ah, but the waves that would trill at our touching we’ll never know. The wonder in your lap is certainly of more interest: the hands tensely clasped the wriggling of the fingers the hangnail in need of biting. And yet this is not what you’re thinking, not the thought you’re fighting of the warm, brown eyes, seemingly inviting, prying at, crying for dying for your attention. In this reflection at this angle we have perfection— we don’t want truth we want convenient fictions. Unshroud us of our –isms shun us for our –tions let our lofty ideals exhaust: if we are not We we are lost.