The Language of the Undone
“The Language of the Undone”
I prefer
them
over humans
those velvet souls
loving
the lesser
parts of me
always
more than anyone
else cares to admit
they inspect
every inch of me
walking over me
territorily
like Gulliver’s
hirsute henchmen
those velvet suits
wrap themselves
like mink
around my neck
gleefully
indulgent
purring into me
like
I am
their only Sun
and every morning
we wake, to become
this existence all over again,
together, we wake alive
bedraggled, strange
and content company,
to face this life face on
they unravel
like cashmere
balls soft pawed
over and around me
needing me,
like I am soft
like I am not hard
like I am soft
as bread dough
I joyfully exist
in these very simple
linear moments
feed me love
they purr, and
the great I am
comes undone
not expecting
such devotion
such unconditional
Love, and
Love,
I come fast undone
a different kind
of creature, no god
a mere nothing
of an undistinguished
unheard of
excruciatingly complacent
woman
I live and breathe
the language -
of the poetic
undone,
imperfect
in all ways
each and every
night and day
perfectly
the great I am
comes undone,
Love
watching
this strange
unrehearsed
small boxed-in life
like origami unfold
warm inside
forming a barrier
between me
and what little remains
the rain
crying down
windowpanes, the outside
like sharp Winter lemonade
the heart inside melting like ice
the external world
hits the glass
reminding me
forensically
it’s not the same
I will never be the same
no, I am not the same
the mind remembers too much
the fertile mind
and its eloquent
reminders remain
in its presentation box
stoic self-contained
the rain pulls the trigger
the window pane slamming
like a forcefield unshattered
reminds me it’s like life
barriers and boundaries
there's an aloof integrity
in the distance we create
walls and their words
competitive
bad alliances
misjudged judgements
trust betrayal
silence
small moments of graffitti
hit the pain like rain
the hand fingerprints
its curlicue cold refrain
still, here we are
tracing hearts
on an ice cold
foggy window
warm inside, hope
somehow still sits
in a corner somewhere
with its twin the other side unseen
drawing demarcation lines
a barrier
between me and you,
you and I
and what remains;
velvet suits
wrap themselves
like mink
around my neck
gleefully
indulgent
purring into me
like ...
I am
Love
without you,
not so lonely
but missing something
very much entirely
no need for names
we are known
to each the other,
for you and I
are Forever
consanguine
the same,
you are loved
and I am,
Love,
like you
are Love,
like it or not,
the same,
Love
Forever
Candide Diderot. '24
gvlm
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