	Casual Convo "Et cetera." "Et cetera? The end is rarely that expected." "Which is why one says so after." "'Too late,' you imply?" "'Assume' is what, but since I'm still your friend in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?" "Depend on it." "I used to. I might even try to once again." "Oh?" "Yeah, or not." "No lie, that's what makes it so easy to pretend." "'Whatever,' right?" "'Whatever.' Choose your word. I'm not responsible." "By that you mean you'll hold against me what you think gets heard or doesn't get that close." "Don't make a scene." "A scene? A life was more what I'd preferred, as if one word made sense beyond this screen."
	Just Visiting As if one word made sense. Beyond this screen perhaps. Across that threshold yes. As though one promise could have been accepted. Oh inside those walls for sure. No guards between the two of us of course there then. Routine as a good morning kiss as if you know I pose no threat. As though I choose to go or stay with no missteps to intervene. Like this were home. Like you knew I'd been meant to be a part. No stranger. Family. Except I'm not. You'll not know where I went tomorrow morning. I won't ever see you waking. This will mark the best extent my time with you might offer guarantee.
	No Excuses My time with you might offer guarantee of nothing more than somewhat shared pretense by which I'm not thought worthy your defence so shrug it off or claim the fault's with me, whereas with my best acting I can't be near good enough to earn love's recompense. We're sorry we're not sorry. In a sense, we're both and neither due apology. Would anything be different? We can blame me all we want, and I could even do what you make like I should've. All the same I'd owe you, right? No chance of something new. Forgiveness has no meaning, no real aim when what I'm really bad at's loving you.
	100% = X / X When what I'm really bad at's loving you, the best I do just makes me all the worse the upside down and inside out reverse what you expect of me. Sad déjà vu how we're divided by ourselves, into each other one on one, our mirror's curse as absolute as math. I can't coerce more truth of it than what you think most true. And so we've nothing left. Completely done. Undone's more like it. No more to have shared, since giving all's the same as having none and we've already taken all we'd dared. Consider me love's void. I'm not the one against whom all your loves should be compared.
	Throwback Ancient History Against whom? All your loves should be compared against which holy saint? Upon whose best must all our worst improve? Each passion's quest must measure up to whose high standard? Spared no mercy by whose precedent? Declared unworthy on whose sayso? Second-guessed by whose presumptions? By whose litmus test selected? For whom confidences bared? It's over! done with! settled! obsolete! irrelevant! before our time! old news! as dead as you'd desired! deadweight! deadbeat! deadwood! dead end! It's dead! It's ended. Choose to live our love in our own day, complete in our own moment, free of yester's views.
	A Girl's Monolith In our own moment free of yester's views secret braids of color bind a tight threesome together bathed in blinding light in our own dances hand in hand with who's lonesome enough embraced enough to lose love in life and life in love to write abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight dreams we'd scarred thick dark as one'd abuse open face into fierce firestorm to share reality intended opportune except will I go? can't he? where? you're seeing hearing cutting coming soon? over the bed made home to our affair - us three yet there beneath a rising moon.
	Exoterica Us three: Yet there beneath a rising moon inside another's shadow made to fit through hungry thighs, through open heaven split, yet have we not the voice of ancient rune within us? Their own one: What you impugn creates your only truth. What you permit destroys your freedom. What you've made of it will lose by midnight all you'd gained past noon. We never heard a word of it. They hadn't let their silent moments break into our peace so they we three quite easily forget as we them can ignore. So does love cease in voided lives born empty, breathless, yet their one must keep what we three can't release.
	Rejection Accepted Their one must keep. What we three can't release their one must hold. What we three won't adjourn their one must take. What we would not unlearn they must pay homage to. Too strict police to run their's street. Not shamelessly caprice enough. Not thought that much of. Taciturn in tune. What's too unwanted. No concern for either our decline or their's increase. Discarded objects' shadows do impose, don't they, on territories newly claimed so need must be put down. Rejected. Those get left no chance of honor being named except to gauge what comes against what goes in terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed.
	Love's Occultation In terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed our bed lies at the eye of the eclipse, with moonlight at her darkest in your hips on me left blinded by his circles flamed. For whom's intents whose purpose dies defamed, our dance composes swirls on glides in flips through open space. Raw unveiled passion slips along deep crevices on satin framed. Oh wait. No, my mistake. That's just a cloud and one I should've known's not come as mine, yet looking up to you's as disallowed as much as if our orbits stood in line, so I'll fall to the shadows of the crowd without the silhouette of your design.
	A Sapling's Sonnet Without the silhouette of your design extending through the dark across the lake to take his shore as yours, he'd never make your branches to his stormy skies incline. Without the potion of your root and vine imbuing wind and soil, he'd never wake beneath your canopy, but rather take his place beneath your quiet forest shrine. I see my way. Both in and through. And out. What's unknown grows to what we will believe as sure as oaks from smallest acorns sprout, tomorrow with today's past lives to weave. To weave. Yes, that I'll also see about to give breath to all earth and sky conceive.
	Spring's Offspring To give breath to all earth and sky conceive, to bring light to all corners on the day, to spread peace to each word bold visions say, to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve, to comfort ghosts of all who cannot grieve, to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay, to color in the drab and the dim and the gray, to make true love the promise all achieve, may she who turns her circle round to spring and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure fill we who dance and they of whom we sing with life reborn in innocence right pure to melt through bitter winter's icy sting, for death itself to offer certain cure.
	Something Apotropaic For death itself to offer certain cure against contagious love's dissembled smile so as with something sure to reconcile, one's resurrection can't be premature else one's again exposed to the allure and tempting eye and captivating wile at risk of falling victim to love's guile against which no believer can endure. Say, tell me where to find that silver charm you always wore around your neck? Your heart is naked, open to harsh hurt and harm. You sacrificed it? God, that wasn't smart. Let's look see if we've something to disarm the threat to life of love's capricious dart.
	Friday, the 13th The threat to life (of love's capricious dart, its poison proving meant's not good enough unless both think so) is (not up to snuff no matter how much sacrificed) to start (there was a job, there was a place) to chart a course (and all the other legal stuff required of him to immigrate) to tough it out together, then fall far apart. It kills a man. Then kills him back to back again until the man's past all unknown and yet again until the man's lost track and even yet again damned to his own dark hell. All voided out. All lost. All black. Unwanted. Turned away from. That alone. ...

as is

coming through

conforming