1) you may be young, but your eyes
are as old as the winter of 1945,
shrewd and callous and as obscure
as the green fog. for a multitude of reasons, of
which the previously mentioned might be one, you are
not beautiful to many people. you
are not even beautiful to you.
but I've got laser vision and I see all
sorts of things and to me, you are
so fantastically brilliant.
2) I've come to learn that the
truth does not lie on the reverse of
the shooting star that soars across
the black folds of a summer night
or within the crooks of the
shattered smile on your mother's
withered face. the truth does not lie in the
wounds that mark our chained
wrists or in the seeking eyes of the
deprived. our lives are fractions of
an untruthful whole, and we're
living off of fantasy tattoos, bathing
in rivers of midnight ink, reveling
in black-and-white daydream cities
that don't exist. learn with me.
3) time is a funny concept. it lulls
when the pain is insufferable and
speeds by when the joy is
unadulterated. in this world of
stilted towns and characters with
wide eyes and unspoken mouths,
where the nobodies triumph and the
somebodies cower on the fault lines, our
time is limited, and unjustly so.
when the time comes for us to go,
please: don’t tear yourself apart. I
crumble completely when you cry.
4) I once met a wise man who lived
in a bowl of oranges, which is a pretty
weird hiding place, even for a
black-and-white daydream city-dweller.
because he was wise, I am most
obligated to tell you that he told me once
that our eyes must do some raining if
we're ever going to grow. one glimpse into
yours and one can see the scars of wars
that are centuries old. they bleed crimson
at night, for hours and hours and hours
and hours on end, only to stitch
themselves back together when the sun
paints the night orange again.
5) darling, have you been crying enough?
your eyes are aging with frightening speed,
but your skin remains unblemished. I have
laser vision and I see all sorts of things
and I see that we are drifting apart, I
know that we are drifting apart, like two
sheets of ice on a river of midnight ink.
6) I want to go back to the winter of 1945,
when we lived on paper and your eyes
were not at all old, but youthful in their
naivety. in this new world of concrete and
metal, our unspoken mouths have been
ripped open and our wide (and in your case,
old) eyes have been blindfolded. I must say,
the world treated us much kinder back then.
*
A/N: this is the weirdest poem i've ever written idek what it means (well i sorta do but not all of it) but you're welcome to interpret it however u wish
