greening, slick, rock-like wooden shadowed earthly, unmoving fixation relationships objectively solid, wasted words never spoken, never screamed, ripping stitched magikal frightened boyhood chalky sentences wiped away like a bloodied lip from back-talk.
what we thought was we when me never existed, calloused, slurring S's, uncourageous studies of falsified reflections genus homo erectus. standing from crawling, nose freshly covered mired dirty feral primordial sexuality. but the me that never existed was in Love!
a wooden cube is an object. crowned cannonized geometric angles or angels holding truths like bird cages containing soul-sprung songs sung melodious for ears of selected few, off-key rejections, failed registers, missing notes, never questioned sketches.
pained panes painted shattered, heat was released, living greening stones felt bitter the cold January.
and the me and the we and the i, dissolved.
and moss will never grow in that place imagined by the us.
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