Kyle Muntz - Voices

more trouble

I have comprehending it: analogous, it is, this to that, I to her, this to being. We were in a room.

It had doors and windows. Moonlight flooded from the windows. There was

a bed. The walls were some gray plaster, I didn't care. There was a carpet. I wasn't

alone. Contradicting forces layered polarity. I was here and I was really here. For the

first time in so long, whatever, with a realization that I am, in relevance to time and

place, the compound that is me, in tune. She was here with me, she was. This was

the forth time I'd seen her, ripping holes in sensible arrangement. And I saw the world from many angles: from all goddamn angles,

sides, up, front and back,

nineteen dimensions, physical, metaphysical,

outside

myself, inside, through the lens of a camera, if that wasn't enough,

realization

of separation.

I had

no shadow.

No.

I had an infinite

# of shadows, all around, defying the light, just like her.

At odds, we blocked

out patterns in the light, coalescent to whatever form of togetherness.

::::::::::::::::::::

"Do you really have to go?" I asked.

She shook her head and I held her to me. Formless, shapeless, in being. I kissed her and told her maybe somewhere in me, if I was capable of love, that I felt it. The night unmasked itself to us, for the sense of poetry she invoked, or her certain things could be certain ways. Not the kind I care to understand. I held her and she reminded me of herself, of her figure in dreams. Our time together was nothing but a chronicle of breathing: body life and breath, delirious strivings. In her own way, she gave meaning to a whole history of silent voices, in me, in me: as though we had been here before,

and someday soon,

we would be here again.

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