Love Poems

 As I live, I breathe through the unceasing monotony of a clock, of speeding cars downstairs on the road, the sound of trees dying in quiet midnight - in spring or when winter ceases to be a part of you, of your supposed ignorance like winter, as I live through the deafening distances of solitary love poems, all under the same hypnosis of the great grand happily ever after, as I live through this obligation of being happy, and the love poems become something else, the soiree turns blind like the dark summer evening outside, and you, and some distant unknown history of being with you, of a sorrowful coexistence longing for eternity, that which clearly survives through every goddamn thing within man, and you... and you under the sun, and you for every love poem I've ever written as I live through this, and you for every houseplant nurtured and died and mourned for, and you who see dead cells as stars, and you in quietness, you in melancholy, you in sombre simpleness of being, you in enraged flowers blooming late in mind, in disturbed sleep, in eyes that seek, in everything that is me.

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