Note to a humanist

I have tried long and hard to find
the courage of soul required to let you be the
egocentric, seductive, knowledgable fickle coward
you always are unnoticeably, but now knowingly , for the sake of my heart to
find itself next to you. In this quest I have discovered that unambiguously my admiration
for my own self- not for who I am - in many ways not but a woman ordinary
but uncommon in the way that i loved you purely- is of much great lengths than
I expected - I find in the disgust for the thinness, for the calculated fakeness of your enthusiasms
a bitterness unoften, unusual for my skin to assimilate.
I don't know how best to say that
the tragedy, my dear,
is not that I love you
Is that it doesn't matter anymore.

Mágoa

The light glides through the stones, a petty white curtain stands between us, creaks of the bed, tidelike movements, cars passing, I hear it, an engine heart, the world that exists the world that is, outside. How does it always play the same worn out song, like a fading memoir, the gramophone of all the streets , of all the souls, an aggregate of humans, that wraps me like a blanket, enters me through the eyes, the toenails, the heart, cracked open, a chestnut. holds me in dispute, on edge unasleep disawaken, permeated. An unrest, an illustrious format of my being. God of Atheists [a prayer] why did you not make our walls thicker, those of our houses, those of our eyelids those of our hearts?

God of all things paper thin, [a plea] to rip easily, to be see-through, to resemble a nothing mascaraded to exist, a carnival of significance. You only left the nights for feeling, cemeteries.

Light pokes, tickles, mocks the absent, the avoiding. Creaks of the bed, creaks of the untruths I refuse to sleep on.

Then light flashes from a phone screen of words, of

Words               

Words   

Words       

Words             

Words    

Words              

It’s almost as if I hear gunshots the night contains, the night smooths, the night opens its hands for another grave, the memory expands, the bed creaks, I am standing and I am walking and I feel I exist even through the night denies me. I hold on to ideas I have carefully chosen myself, savour the self-inflicted illusions. The time accelerates, the hands tighten. I grip, I demand existence from the unconsciousness of a night faking itself. I pretend its pretending. All The Words so antithetical to those ideas I have chosen, they feel crafted, the phone screens give me an anti reality, the reality of the world outside has found its way through the stone. The words look at me, why is it that what chooses what is real is always beyond us? I beg the night to pause, I want to choose what is mine for one last time, then we both look away as I grip you in your sleep. The screens tell me , they don’t allow me to overwrite what is of factual substance without unwriting myself.

In panic, in contempt , in terms with, in compromise, in the middle of graveyards digging the thoughts, the words caressing the ever passing light, the streets, what we were never but were. Existence doesn’t exist! I think, I grip, I know, I hear, I translate I see, I close the eyes,

     I

         Wonder

How many nights will it take to forget that for you,

like a fork,

like a brush,

a hairdryer

irrelevant of my every human soul

like a chair

like a little thing
I was a difficult obedient object.