Apparitions of pure intention, barely perceptible in the crossbeam
that is the dark mind of lost opportunity
Love is like a haunted house. Always empty, always inhabited.
In the same way that dark matter reveals itself only by the
effect it has on its surroundings, likewise, the only evidence of any
connection between us is the effect you leave in your wake.
Whose choice was it to label the visible as distinguishable,
in the invisible as unapproachable? Why say that one is knowable and the other
is not? Wouldn’t that give us permission to be together?
Skipping a parable stepping stone between the visible
universe and the unmade dialect where we will ultimately lay the foundations of
a new colony.
What would happen if I snuck in and reversed the labels? Or
does that explain what you’ve already done to me?
Collective intellect siphons the unimaginable from the
snowflake's prism of coherence. Perfectly timed to unlock our shared dignity,
synchronized to gravity by a copper pendulum.
With you, it is like my only chance for release is a single
frame inserted among thousands, frozen at the precise second only to expose
another subliminal message, hidden, seamless, woven into the expanding forest.
The forest that grows slowly, unimpressively. The long
process that becomes undone by a red serpent weaving the tapestry of its
winding path across the damp earth. Pure intentions only walk free when they
are watered by miracles.
Free to grow, free to walk, fly, swim, slide, crawl, slow as
hardening amber. Crystallizing under the weight of its own indecision.
In the twilight of this endless delay, suddenly a window of
opportunity appears that says: Action Required
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