What is it, that is beautiful?
Is it flowing, tousled, yet never straying from its sane mind?
with plump, tone and speckles?
Gusted now – suddenly here, in form
if not for idiosyncratic reasons
then universal ones
giving lyrical, beated banter
regurgitating the novel so eloquently,
adapted sans palatable
my only existence of you
is the kind that is shared with me
our alliance defined by its
bouts of zane, glitchys and lags, loading off others indifference
was that. then, that was beautiful?
having shared places forbidden and deeply felt?
Having been, in, and on to
to open up our homes,
and its visiting guests —
as I am to you,
until I realise I am no longer hosting
can i pick apart these bits, these personal curiosities, and intense considerations from who you
have become to me
out of our juxtapositions does envy confuse itself for appreciation,
is that why we remain only in each other’s minds and in the past
fantastical projections of regular people
Nothing serious, nothing definitive, never defined—
if I ever texted you again, I’d ask,
what is it, then, that was beautiful?
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