Nothing happening for me here, so i turn to you, and your lines issued directly to His mind—the love we share is routine, and, as such, it feels right. i take on his familiar stance, and pounce upon my prey the night, at first goes gently, and then, in the early hours of the morning, something goes amiss—someone needs my help, it seems. i monitor the things that i confide, waiting, quietly, for His reply.
To be the person that you love, i sustain myself on time and space, going a little, in my direction, before returning to you with what I find. i listen to the ticking of the clock—four beats a measure on a three second interval, and, through you, i achieve the sublime. I have some understanding, then, of eternal life, and the places we have been, and the places we are going to.
No need to pine for my true love: she exists, like me, in my room. How long will this one last? And, when I repair with myself, how long should it be before another should captivate me? In a world without machines, we live, more so, through the background and each other, forming, together, His longer notes.
I go to some Egyptian like place, although, in point of fact, only benevolence remains. How do i make it through the day without my computer—and my TV? The background and the community stimulate the feel good chemicals in my brain—and i’m content to do anything.
Drawing on the walls, between me and you,
is part and parcel of the harvest moon;
wherever i go, low and behold, through
thick and thin, I’m sustained none too soon.
You want a piece of me, Kemosabe?
Come and get it, darling, for i exist.
the phase between us is what we see—
a force, for good, that, no doubt, shall persist.
Where would i be without my one true love?
But she’s always been here, waiting for me
and the product that i produce hereof.