I can hear the flowers growing
in each moan of your breath
I can feel the breeze of your essence
while your body is pressed on me
your hair moves through my fingers
like wet sand
and the skin that I'm in
grins
like mad

I am not the type of flesh
to regret
the motion of fingertips
tracing my physical silhouette at rest
in ways even Schiele could not invent
still in knowing our actions are forward
I always hesitate to explain how I miss you

states of mind so foreign
that the home in your head will seem
as if it's been quarantined
mental shelter can no longer supply safety
there is only room to roam
the negative spaces of your brain

each characteristic taken away
from the natural tone of your lips
to the shine behind your eyes
good luck on your way out
the road you chose
is up in smoke

bored with the third dimension
growth and decay
go hand in hand lately
on a daily basis
we hardly pay attention

at what point do we bloom,
then begin our descent?
in essence I'm guessing
it makes no difference
we all reach the end eventually

keep ******* filters
popping capsules
downing poison
slipping tongues in

there will always be acts
to prohibit living
why don't we focus on what fills us?
instead of giving into
what kills us

feigning flesh
pressed up against
stripped skin

cannot mesh lips
hard
enough
cannot touch limbs
soft
enough

places I rarely visit
consist of programmers obeying restrictions
operating under false assumptions
distracted by faulty wiring

swarms gather under fluorescent lights
to contemplate organic life technologically
never satisfied with the diagnosis
for it always leaves them feeling empty

can I be blamed,
for not only wanting this digital life to be restrained,
but for also wanting it to change?

a persistent desire to aspire some revolution
to move away from
light pollution & pixel resolution
absent of
abbreviated emotion & cyber fixation
only
unplugged love & three dimensional conversation