And I bid this utterly unfair, the ways in which you hold onto past affairs.
And sing with them, back pockets. Where memories graze and hold on,
We were vipers in our own venom…
And in my own mind’s nectar, I sift for glances of your skin,
Pleasures from the old country, where the city hadn’t turned us into communists, yet.
We were fair, like children, then. We also shared the strongest of reason hands, and again I claim yours to be back pocketed, in the now of this time…
Mine? Open to each and sudden flux of vapored time that happens to eat change at my own soul if I to see you again...
And! Don’t say you know what’s best when only your own eye-lids you know. When only your own assumptions aid you through the studies and degradations of me and my past characters. And will these personified hooks swing round again? More than likely, from time to time – but so in this cycle sprouts the absolute definitions of me, and with that said, justification.
So, if you, or anyone else, does wish to break parts at this declaration or cut views at my mind, then a cutting of roots I shall force my hands to scissor, in preservation of the only known permanent commodity that I, or anyone else, can have come to find for themselves – and that being, undoubtedly, the right of sanctity to self.
