whenever i leave something relatively new alone, at once i disappear from it. i return to the old room and you and your ways of seeing. i ask you plainly to run away with me, from the possibility of not-you. a plea against anything but a soiled, tainted, unfeeling not-you. as you, the actual one, stand in front of me, in my mind's eye, feigning a casual lean on my stoop's railing, smoking a cigarette, making eyes at every brick stacked. the way is cleanly, dimly, lit with posts. your eyes are more blue than ever, right now. i can't make myself grab your face. it isn't written. we haven't written that, yet.
you say it is impractical to think now, imply a not-you transient situation can be the blue glistening tarp over our unfinished home. i say this home can't be built on the smoke you keep inhaling, it's too expensive, quit; i cannot stand to see hypothetical cancer eat you, i cannot take care of the cancer, when i want to keep you fresh and breathing the sighs of relief that come from realizing that you are where you belong, no one but you, right in this moment. there is a blue tinge to the ends of your sentences. As I no longer long, I hope to replace everything but, I know to replace everything but. i return to the old room and you and all of your ways of loving me through shadows of sentiment, never firmly grasping the voice, the words.