In these conversational forests where within we've dwelt,
I have the vaguest sense that you consider yourself a
canvas void eternally of sufficient noise and sparkle
with which you may tarry each and every sultry glance.
Atop these many pillars of occasioned dialogue,
I find my ears grow bored and sleep just beyond the start,
leaving sight the only sense you've left me here to compensate.
I drink you in without feign of care or motive to be subtle.
Somehow after ravages you still produce the raw
needy, clawing side of me that serves as mankind's foil,
and leave me desperate for release amidst a now distorted
sense of past and future-tense that doesn't mean a God damn thing.
And oh the things I'd to you, in my home or in yours.
We rarely speak of bygone things, because you were so different.
But same or not your appeal remains something still and primal;
despite the passing of the days, I may remind you of why then
you had such sudden urges met with nothing but a photo
which you kept beneath your bed in the shell of layered boxes.
I'd heard about it through a friend and found myself quite shocked
and angry that I did not act when it could have been so simple.
Now you are intoxicants met only with a vision,
liquor for my hungry eyes and set about in grace.
I'll watch you twirl your bags of rice and imagine your low-bending,
but there's likely little left to say, unless you've seen my changing.

View sivus's Full Portfolio