I owe more apologies
than I have breathe in my lungs.
Occam\'s Razor has been dulled,
leaving extraordinary claims and
not a semblance of proof:
our hypothesis proven true.
Running laps in between the lines
ideally and presumptively;
flirting with a perfect world,
but ready to burn it down
if reality\'s knife runs through.
Another set of fingers, please!
Another feminine voice
to cure the nausea of leaving
such a luminous beauty.
The vicious cycle is mutilating.
I\'ve been made a child again,
recalling the colors and scents
of playing in eager innocence;
a coup of time warping kisses
under the light of hushed divinity.
A giant hand eclipsing the smaller,
too indignant to effectuate a clasp;
if only we weren\'t halves and pieces,
if only superstition
were a doctrine to live by.
Is it too much
if it\'s true?
Or better yet,
is it true
if we fell in a forest
and nobody heard?