So Fades the Bliss of the Blind (Glass Eyes)

I’d like to be overwrought

in your planetary eyes,

hyperbolically fantastic

and transcendent

in my falsified perfection.

Oh, how the faulted name

glitters on your tongue,

a fine-cut jewel, but

darling, cut it any way you like,

it is still the same stone,

and I was once young

and miserably disquieted,

but if you could just uplift me

like a colossal eardrum

throbbing to the evanescent rhythms

of pretty, fleeting songs—

we shall soon be aghast

at our own misfortune: that this should end,

that realism’s bad aftertaste

should settle onto the palates of

our lives, fickle and final, fraught

with lies like faults and splinters

in the quality of stone.

I am not who you think.

I am lesser, more.