Lingering
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Night and its vibrant successor were born in two parallel tendencies. Furtive intersections are only enabled with the presence of callous pillows. Maple-sweet tides of Alibi. Alas. So I would rather have my drowsy eyes fixed onto this elegant slow motion of your tongue sailing across upper-lip, while so does the imperceptible crescent, silently, to the bottom of sky. Where I’ll show you that uncanny vermillion adagio, that color merges on the verge of every dreams, clinching to its soft white threshold, giggling.
Two forty five. Perfect timing for fishing the absolute authentic ancestor of moon who has been sound asleep in deep blue coma and torpid waves of Neptune, for long and too long. But all we end up doing is fishing in shallow exchange of sights and sighs, for we have, no mirrors, to conduct. Veils and veils and veils of ghostly clouds soar in a motion of crescendo. If I change my mind and plead you to trade that remedy for a glass of liquor now, would it be too late? Or a sprinkle of that dispersing sky.
I find myself nimbus, either from this sobbing 12°C late summer night or maudlin emulation of a dead rosebud. A bowlful of Pops and pence. Gray, gray flowing beyond the view finder. When you really have an Object in mind is when language starts wafting and would eventually get lost in the sullen milieu of paper planes (mass) production. Apparition. Dim flickering iris, mellifluous and unfathomable as it could be.
And so I smile bitterly.
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Photo/Poetry: 郁藜 2018/09/19
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