He sounds like a man who would nervously laugh when you turned him down.
Darling Thomas, I left you like bragging rights, like the falling end of winter. A tongue full of stars could not explain how kind your eyes were, how when you winked at me, I very suddenly understood exactly what you meant. Dried memories read from broken electric pages, light spilling in soft s-curves from your lips, the consonants ticking like rain on the window, that was my favourite. Lying in a transitional place scraped free of complications, your whispering to me felt akin to holding my hand over a precipice.
She sounds like a girl who wouldn’t remember your name the week after.
We are a strange language, affectionate, improbable, and temporary, more a comprehension of melody than a general theme, bridging the artificial gap between where we are and where we’d rather be. Dreams of fractal social interaction, the idea that happiness is possible. Mathematics would deny our existence, stating us as too improbable according to our friends, (Aesop’s fables ignore us), but by candle-light, we carry the sun unmarked in our teeth. The lights off, it’s cats purring instructions on how to build the world a better and faster moon. Clear as a dancefloor, we are unexpected brass mirrors of old-fashioned magnetism, the current underneath the world that explains to blood which way to flow.
dum spiro, spero (while I breathe, I hope)