I'm a repeating memory with many sides and holes and fillings and doorways that always open to more of the same. I'm color-coded. I'm severely exposed. I build castles out of wax. I put bees in the balusters ... and here I rest, giddy as a figment sprung from its airtight cage.
I look into your eyes and see a hole inside my heart that's ready to sew itself back up, free of charge. And this, this is expected, after all. I'm pulling my own strings; there's no puppet master up there in the balcony. And I can't stop it, and isn't it wonderful, after all? That loss of control, those fairy tale books strapped to your back and carved into wings? I suppose it's a sickness, a waspy affliction, like Lazarus felt when the nerves filled back up with warm fluid after the stone rolled away and he saw the light of day. It's a one-sided conversation, mostly, wrapped up in expectation and jump-started emotions.
A kiss really feels like the breath of life this time. I've experienced this in dreams. Is this the universe I've come back to? Why can't you stay in one place? I'm a repeating memory with many sides ...
