We only live
To be swallowed in the cadence of any second that represents our entire life.
We only hope
To discover the title of our novel.
The metaphor that makes our stories cohesive.
We choose instruments of every sort to make ourselves last,
Tools to move us forward toward the representative moment,
the frozen image, which, if we are so lucky to gain it,
forces us to live a tortured existence of perpetual attempts to re-create it.
He pulled his hood over his head, and walked into the night
While I watched and listened to every detail
And felt his desertion in every limb of my body.
For people like myself,
Every movement of the world seeps into the skin and crawls beneath it for days.
Facial movements tell years of stories, while postures recite a phone call in its entirety.
Every detail and is painfully lucid, and during every minute, we are touched and dented, like soft clay.
As your cornea moves a micrometer, telling me everything about your life,
I tug at my hair and wonder why I am this way.
In the rarely, sporadically occurring seconds of life that I see something beautiful
My hypersensitivity is no longer a curse, but just the opposite, a gift,
Which allows me to reason:
It is at the expense of feeling a persistent, painful blow of so much ugly
That one can feel the intensity of true beauty beyond comprehension.