There was something missing from my life, and as if a hole in my heart, chemicals rushed in like so many planets of solar-system-looking elements of our universe and, to my drowned sobriety, they tasted like the loneliness one packs way down deep in his bags before he goes to visit his ancestors so he can deliver it in one piece: a brew stronger that I expected; hoppy bitterness of a Belgian Ale yet dark and deep as the absence it fills. This is my well of Longing.
Something is missing. Laughter. Yes, my second half, laughing, falling on me and on the table where I sit and write alone, wiping all these words away ... no, I take back the "other half" metaphor and put there "a whole and complete tavern lighting up Pope St. with a neon sign reading The Imperfect, which flashes an occasional apostrophe between the "I" and the "m" stumbling the logic a bit until the windows appear golden as the flecks found in happy eyes pouring out warmth."
Let's divide this drink, the sum of all the spells you could cast in one midnight, all the intent you could squeeze into the pin head puncturing flesh of a voodoo doll, the ink from the indelible word bedazzled by the seriousness of our feelings, drunk off the same the stuff, we step outside where it is dark to have a better view of our future, raising the height of any forest canopy within us like the hairs on our bodies, leaping like so many tongues speaking to the edges of me and you like an ocean might, in its own way, howl under a full moon, and lap up the sweat of a throbbing nape.
Something is missing. Laughter. Yes, my second half, laughing, falling on me and on the table where I sit and write alone, wiping all these words away ... no, I take back the "other half" metaphor and put there "a whole and complete tavern lighting up Pope St. with a neon sign reading The Imperfect, which flashes an occasional apostrophe between the "I" and the "m" stumbling the logic a bit until the windows appear golden as the flecks found in happy eyes pouring out warmth."
Let's divide this drink, the sum of all the spells you could cast in one midnight, all the intent you could squeeze into the pin head puncturing flesh of a voodoo doll, the ink from the indelible word bedazzled by the seriousness of our feelings, drunk off the same the stuff, we step outside where it is dark to have a better view of our future, raising the height of any forest canopy within us like the hairs on our bodies, leaping like so many tongues speaking to the edges of me and you like an ocean might, in its own way, howl under a full moon, and lap up the sweat of a throbbing nape.
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