You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...


-Walt Whitman


8.10.15

the thief


A THOUGHT PASSES, fleetingly vivid at the edge of consciousness. The same thought passes again a few wing beats after, without consent, a thief at the peak of daylight. It keeps coming back, more urgently now. The gaps between them slowly dissolve like how cigarette smoke disintegrates into the atmosphere, like butter in warm bread. Thoughts reeling, converging into more than an abstract image, into a moment.

I think of you this way sometimes. In loops, circles to which I revolve. You moving from the edges to my very center. And I dream fully awake. That space in between conscious thoughts has never been the same since we have met.





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