Little Fly

The start of a poem

The destination of the wild

The origin of a myth

I’m afraid I’m just a child

We actually came to be

Hot summer in the winter

Weighing down thin petals

Giant stems bending like backs and splinter

Silver glances

Cutting through like radiation

Two lights dancing

Translucent smile

Golden grip

Perfect sensation and locked hips

Numb fingertips

I will mention the intoxicating effect

Of each of his eyes

As they rested so perfectly in a world

So clad with mirrors reflecting

While his soul strikes lighting

And is trapped in the tunnels of mine

He must be made of something different

He must be someone different

Attempts to forget his face

Are as relentless as trying to conceal tears when drunk

Vodka veins and ankle sprains as you try to escape the truth that swirl in his eyes like serum

Each one shimmers with an unfamiliar delirium

That seems like the reason for most things, life is all but inferior

Closer now to the space around his chest

Where souls go to rest when there is no rest

A beating heart is received by him and cured

Like despair is curved by liquor

He swirls any resentment

And so you thirst for truths about his birth

Where did he come from?

Why is he here?

Why has he met me, of all the unfamiliar people I know?

Familiar with myself it can only mean one thing

A bare, cold feelings sneaks up my legs before I sleep,

A chill that is so deep

But never deeper than his gaze when truly meant

This man is not a rendering of a blessing from heaven sent

He is not here to save anyone

He is here to watch it all, like anyone would do if they were to fall

Here in my lap he sits and tells me ‘sorry’

His voice never trembles when he tells me not to worry

I can’t help but study the god-like nature, improvisation in body like jazz

But I clearly see the ego that resides in the glossy eyes he has

They’re cold sometimes, alone

And without bone, they cannot walk away and find others just like his

He’ll roll another cigarette and sit exactly where he is

Not quiet nor silent,

A mind flying over oceans, powered by motions

Not emotions,

It’s impossible to know whether he’s an island or an ocean

It’s impossible to know where his brain truly lives

And because of this, possession is his only truest sin

I tread carefully

I breathe carelessly to seem mentally

And emotionally…physically present

But my brain is very much watching over us

Like a very annoying fly

That circles in sweaty rooms instead of going alone outside

Freedom is his belt, and holds

Like a closed bud holds a bee

If I open these petals up will, something die

While I’m being stung?

Will I cry?

Selfish, he would say, admire the beauty… he would suggest

While the fly above me realises that his flower can never be her nest.

R.M.C

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