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.
10/04/2016
Richmond