the eyes are set and the hands are ready, the endearing future is near and we call the moon and ask for remembrance. the olive trees and the sparkling water sitting nearby, we can each remember how fierce we once were, but we know that this outdoor arena. this stage for the gods of our own divided natures, can tell us more than a lifetime.
his eyes remarking upon the brow we sit near, his actions not quite endearing or prophetic, we all underestimate the delectable figures of the past, quitting the future to remind the present of the functionality of our doom. i sensibly wipe my tears at the last pause we see before the end.
his actions mimic my own, letting the gossip wind down as we sit forward in this impossible state, kissing the memory of ourselves, the unlit candor of our love.
in prose, as readers read themselves away and with tears in their eyes throw away the pain, i seek a necessary stranger. the delighted one with his rainbows and his stars and his diaries, his almanac of favorites clanging away in the cellar of himself. he is here now. so present and valuable, enticing and dicing. not quite reminiscing about themselves.
the hands were there, written over the world i would say. he wrote me poetry when i need some. i could be the best i thought. i really thought i could and would be the best.
after i was left alone, i ran the doors in. i called my friends and expelled myself. i was only kidding i said. they thought i was an idiot. i was.
the fight starts and my hands go numb. i sit and stare at myself and wonder softly to the sky to march myself forward, quietly ignoring the pain in my hands and feet. i can only guess my weight and i kiss the canvas as i kiss a lover hello.
i miss you i say. i need you now more than ever. i lose the fight. i walk over to my trainer and he asks me for advice. his wife is letting him go he says. she is walking out.
its a bad time for advice. i cant see and i need his help just to get back to the training room. i put myself on his shoulders just like i always do and i wake up the next morning in pain.
i guess i should have lost, but i want to win. i rarely do. i get fights though. i fight all the time. sometimes i win and often i lose. people bet against me a lot and win. i dont throw fights though. i wouldnt know how.
i think it takes a good dancer to dance badly on purpose. bad dancers cant dance badly on purpose because they cant do anything with their hips on purpose.
i dont fight well so i cant fight bad well. that makes sense to me.