(k.)

Innocent entities of desirable means
watch each other,
eating cotton candy dreams,
whistling songs of forgotten prophets—
stories foretold,
without a hint of knowledge.

It is I you seek,
I you lost.
It is I who spoke of births with assurance.
It is I who meant to hurt you—
and lick your wounds.

The songs drift on,
from afar and from guilt,
because a gentleman
never means to be mean.
And you and I keep undressing,
devouring each scent,
each sense,
each feather—
Icarus, floating,
as gravity betrayed him.

Incandescent.
Morose.
Persecuted.
Simple, reluctant—
a little too proud.
Arrogant, perhaps,
but never intentional.

His skin, still soft.
His muse, still present.

She stands at his side,
knowing little
of what he's witnessed,
killed,
absorbed—
in this world,
or another—
when he used to smoke
truths from distant lands.

Like the day he became
king of his ship—
and the ego that followed,
and the lie that lived within.

Because math does not mind
telling him
how we became
the blurred lines
between thoughts
he’ll always forget.