While on some days, I'll construct half poems(with the intention of a full one, anyway) , the other days I'll go over the other half written poems you'd left at the altar. For instance, that one without a beginning. For instance, that one without an end. //full poem in caption// While on some days, I'll construct half poems(with the intention of a full one, anyway) , the other days I'll go over the other half written poems you'd left at the altar. For instance, that one without a beginning. For instance, that one without an end. Let me be here, thinking hard about the one about the nomad trying to find his way to Gilead, through any amount of sleepless nights and any number of fallen eyelashes. Let me be here, talking about the man waiting for the woman with an uncanny love for the smell of kerosene and everything on fire, waiting outside her door, hands pressed on it. While on some days, I'll count the footprints that lead up to my door, lead up to my door beginning at the end of your shadow, on most other days I'll negate my laws, I'll negate any motive, any trickling wisp of a memory that could have painted your shadow a subtle shade of any pastel shade, any, other than black with traces of the evening sunset, of course. While I have always been me, fiercely so, in every way I was never taught to be, let me be here, and on the count of three (you may snap your fingers every second, if you will), I might narrate tales of days I've had, days stuck in grainy, poor pixelated pictures, and thinking about the forlorn mistress in your one rare complete poem, forlorn in her own way , for she never had a home whose walls could close in on her and let her be the piece of a torn out page from a journal of year 1987( I know not, why you chose that year, in particular). And I've known. I've known all this while, footsteps do disappear. You see it everyday, on the sea shore, tiny sea shells adorning silhouettes of a jagged footprint.
