I am pressing into myself, in undulation,
in wrinkle and fold and deliberation
this, you, me, him, her and the other
Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, Hermia
A dream, a dream, a dream! In midsummer—-
In my wakefulness, I am cocooning
(without expectations of flight, or winged colour)
for this over-triage is an effort unto my very small being
I cannot breathe still
We have created, in shape, a four to five banded structure
imperceptible to everyone
but me
rectangle! rectangle, pentagon?
All day I tried
but there you were, in reticulated masquerade and kiss
greek at the seams, so wholly interweaved
as if created, soley for me, o’ this illicit chemistry
This drawing ardour is unprecedented—–
I realize
Hence, I am folding in relative manner
It is rather undersized, still, so, fast! score!
Before
it, like the impulsive camellia reticulata, sets the burst and bloom
rarest oh the rare but if does it come, o’ it does
doe-eyed as young, I hand her to you
but rectangle and pentagon said true, you lean to me still
hush! she does not know.
I do not creep, nor do I respond (on the outside)
In shadow, I memorize our hours, despite my discrepancy
The moments were naught a whole day, but a galaxy
This, himitsu, as I succumb to this covering in half-waked states
(a dream! a dream!)
is edging out of my skin, heaving and chuckling all over me
with a starving taunt
it screams, “off! what is this feeling! you are wandering!”
and oh indeed I stray, and I guilt, and I fear
because despite all, I only remained true
to him and you
as the sad little wretch I am, no deceit be here—he does enjoy
and as consequence, he reaches to me
for my dismal own self
we, foursome unknowing, are tousled now
Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, Hermia!
This is too much for me.
Filed under: it's like love but not
