To My Own Imbrication

She was mad at me for being mad at her for trying to manipulate me. It was my geographical destiny to be with her but that didn’t stop the opportunity from emerging out of devastation. Simply put she rang the windbell of my want exhausted and I answered. Towards and away, a flash flood of desire each morning.

For I was too tired to resist.
For I tried to imagine a life in which we had never met.
For if anything in this constituted a threat to our stability it was ignored.

In the bloodshot human trials of it all I breathed in what was broken or bound to break and held it, a bourbon sun shade on sky to keep me at the window when she called and I ignored, and for every hour I spent animalized in muteless ambiance I spent another conducting amendments to my life I could not carry. Anything I once thought threatened me with emotion lay down to teethe.

For I was resifted too many times to remember me.
For I dissolved into dreams too easily to hold down a job.
For I felt I deserved no denouement.

And when the tremolo hallucination of the person I almost was appeared before me I could be nothing but cordial for I was always the lesser of us, the one decision that turns me into him remaining unimaginable as ever. So I am left again a numb and useless observer of time, held to the supreme distillation of my reality that blisters my sleep.

For she tried to restore the disaster.
For the cold retraces the lines on my face.
For I offend myself with my own actions.

Benign as it sounds I could never clutch her words. But she spoke and what spins in me spun no more. Series of acclimations thrown out in obsolescence I gathered dust on my tongue to moor what poison otherwise would cause her harm. Mud-caked, a phrase would sometimes fall into her and I wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

For something congealed in me a paralysis.
For unfolded I felt oddly fit to die.
For inside this I could conjure no illusions.

And in the perfumed fire of our malady the nothing we always wanted to keep close to us slipped away in a shadow. So bearing such a history from all the days making up a life I may as well drape over my head a blackened isolation and begin again at the fringes.

For I was always separated by sleep.
For every day was longer than my life.
For my life was a dream I could no longer remember.

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