magnolia
i stand in a magnolia flavoured bubble of imagining you, at the station waiting for the bus. you must take the bus, and you must know where these streets lead. i can hardly bring myself to imagine your eyes, let alone the light reflected in them, and i cannot believe that it was me who beheld them more than one time, many years ago, and my mouth which once uttered jokes that you laughed at
you give the impression of being chiseled through bone, your cheekbones: like ebony, rounded like olive oil. you were complicated, like me, your mysteries locked away for the neighbour on the other side of the fence. your coat was pewter black, like obsidian stone, as if the designer had traced the outline of your shadow on mist itself, and blew you like the myths and memories towards the settled earth. i am much more than this idea of you, because i made you; i took you and shaped you, and by philosophical logic i am the designer and creator, and you are subject to me.
i get my greatest secrets from you, but the secret of you eats me alive
the sunlight so brilliant after the rain that it is a sustained lightning bolt, so bright you can’t look away, like looking at you