Migration patterns never suited the two of us well.
Minds wander,
and find new sights to see.
You see,
there’s a vast world out there.
We have clawed to see it,
and at each other.
We have trekked different paths that somehow came together,
which was almost Earth-shattering.
Capable of giving Mother Nature motion sickness.
At times we had been bound together like the molecules that were spat from our brains to cause our complete self-destruction.
And because of that, night.
Or just a dark room that I have the key to let myself out of.
We may have broken ourselves apart,
but the crust of the Globe never split.
This had made me realize,
after the factual end of everything,
we will be acquaintances again,
and our vague remembrance will be like a closed ****.

For nine warm months The Big One mumbled to me about an outside world.
I heard of shining fields that wave under the wind,
the sweet perfume of a springtime harvest,
and a great chasm that turns unimaginable colors before and after a short time of dark.
I never thought it could be as true as it is.
I am not yet like The Big One
(though I long to be),
so I am not worried about happenings or business.
I know nothing of understanding or proficiency.
This is alright,
I do not need that quite yet.
I have time to discover this life because I am new.
Much love will take care of me.

I remember your paws going from softly thundering up to crashing down the hallway,
and every game of chase you grew too old for.
I know about the ferocious but tender decision to set you down.
This time there is no need to struggle to get up.
Your wobbly memory survives in the rugs that were put down to help you walk again.

I do not want to say I love you,
because I just do not.
After years of weathering and erosion,
I have discovered I am not a rock.
I have been
(and will again become)
sediment,
but at this time I am not made of minerals.
Now I am flesh,
I am bones,
I am brittle.
There is no geode within me,
only intestines crystallized from worry.
I am not on Earth to be placed as a brick in your tower,
or to be a cornerstone for your fortress,
you only unearthed me.
Do not send your canary expecting oxygen,
and do not forget the contract between miner and material that states you understand by bringing me out,
you risk ruining the land…
Now that I have found my composition,
I ask you to forgive my humanity when I say,
“I don’t want to say I love you,
because I just don’t.”

Each of my companions are stars glittering in the midst of my troubling night.
I cast wishes on them for all good things in such absurd abundance it makes them shine as bright as the Sun itself.
I hope the kindness in their cores is rightfully returned in infinite luminosity.
There may come a day when I no longer walk along their beams,
but presently I gladly welcome them into my orbit.

You are agony itself.
You are a plague upon the Earth.
You are Pandora's opened box.
You are food rotting on the shelf.
You are the pain of giving birth.
You are an *** and an ox.

My hate for you extends as far as the North wind can take it.
Out of home,
in rain or shine.
Tumbling down hills,
and thrashing upstream.
Through traffic jams,
and past city limits.
Beside shorelines,
and under cargo ships.

You are the rocks that my happiness is repeatedly,
repeatedly,
repeatedly dashed against.

Single whipping flame
Maybe that is what I am
Sparked by unknowing

I am a broken oracle for myself.
My prophecies are all dreams in which I become lost.
My inner compass fails me as I unnaturally fall into lines too rigid to be true,
before dissipating into a fog that leaves me dazed.
When I arise I find my moments are repeating as though any future day is left perpetually pending.
All I now know is that my tomorrow is leaving itself unknown,
anonymous under a cloak of frailty.

The other night some man took a trip outside city limits.
He ambled along until he got to a pasture where the ghosts were warm and thoughtful,
missionaries in a newly old land.
They looked as though they were brimming with knowledge on how to live correctly,
but he was just a visitor looking for freedom from thought,
and so asked nothing.
Though he did learn the ghosts weren’t fully translucent.
It seemed there was still blood in them.

Since it was such a beautiful day,
my high school art teacher had us go out to sketch a section of the school.
I have reason to believe we were faced away from the scenery the entire time.
Someway,
somehow,
the sweet sublime of noontime in spring was consumed completely by unbridled,
uncleansed boredom.
We stared down the ugly,
open hallway that our teacher almost tried to persuade us is pretty.
The dirt between the two sidewalks had been so pressed down from rain and being trampled,
it would often be confused for the sidewalk when students didn’t watch their step.
The pebbles by where we sat were covered in dust,
about as dry as the spot made me feel.
There were a few trees that stood like awkward,
gawking freshman boys.
The hall was lined with faded paint,
and asymmetrically placed doors,
windows,
and polls.
Altogether it was an urban obstruction.

Weeks without response
Has our friendship ended or
Will you soon return