Side by side yet viewing the same things differently.
The portrait suppresses changing though eyes dress up static in costumes.
Be it poor luck or Pollock,
black splashes or testament,
perception is what we ourselves will make of it,
and what we ourselves make is a bridge lined with kerosene.
Staring into painted faces,
I don’t know what I seek for in them,
sending wayward glances to neighboring papers,
copying off reality to merge with the imaginary.
When you transformed your hand into a fist,
crumpled up a ragged piece of parchment,
could it be read as a sign that I’m left out of sight?
I don’t see loss in receding numbers or the observation of a wreck.
I see descending scraps that need but tape and patience.
A small idea sent to spiral out can be reeled in,
or I’m left weary in the gaze of a painted face’s musings,
or the words in my ear are only there when made to appear.
The comfort that I feel is the embers of a severed connection,
for I’ve learned to construct meaning out of the fleeting,
gathering ashes in buckets and making castles out of the remains,
fortifying memory against the grain.
What burns now is the warmth of guessing games,
for I’ve learned to dream away fears by repressing them with escapes,
plunging deep into infinity where realities diverge,
life plays by multiple choice and all answers are checked green.
It replaces you and we and our.
I am the product of the blueprint unintended.
I am sustained off of what could have happened if you didn’t shake your head.
( ❤ Mitch)