I
Life is travesty, suckled on the porcelain outer shell of knowledge and truth.
Inhabiting the marled, marbled masterpiece in all its rigor and glory.
Infecting each waking day with routines and routes and rights and wrongs and writhing—and writhing.
I was writhing in tune to the spin of the earth, patiently orbiting theoretical prophecies, possibilities.
Never landing, only grazing.
And yet,
Neither land nor space knew how to appease me.

II
All at once, entirety collapsed into newspapers in bins and tossed flowers on streets.
Bouquets of calamity.
Crumpled, confused, but cognitive.
A topical force, a tropical storm—
You renew
You destroy but spur recreation
You rejuvenator
You instigator and investigator
You mind altering, mind boggling, mind over matter over mind over and over and over -
You sweeten coffee spoon lives measured out in tides.
Swelling, slowing, swallowing me whole.

III
You incarnate the voice inside my head.
Filtered through my consciousness and spilled out of the center of my forehead.
Melting my inhibitions as if ice-cream coating the sticky-hot sidewalks, dribbling drops of drips and drops dripping dropping down cones and little fingers.
All of me.
The time and space of me.
Just ice-cream, putty in your hands.
Can you feel me?
Malleable molding molting.

IV
Changing under your finger tips oh, your finger tips.
River soaked crystals on dirt crusted skin.
I the female but you the siren.
Entice, entice, entice me with your philosophical tongue.
Whisper sweet-nothings and forget-me-not's and I-love-you's disguised as Sartre.
Oh, you who woos with show and slow-
motion's rustling trees and zipping up coats.
I heed your breeze and embrace your chill,
chill the shrill if stress is shown
and tramples the leaves over all you've done.

V
But, you are not of this porcelain sphere.
Suckled on hope, but cracking.
We mend with promises, we seal with duct tape, and press our hearts into the fabric so that it won't break.
As you prepare for your departure, my reasoning flickers, flattens, and finally fractures.
What was adroit is now amiss, honey sweetened and short handed letters can tear away tears and leave ink blot stains of treasures and bliss.
There's a hole in my wholeness and holiness, and it reeks of what-once-was's and what-will-be's and all you'll leave me with is-

Life is travesty, and hell is other people.