phantasmic glory: the last summer tryst

you & i are
the sun, the stars
the moon, gravestones,
and a last resort.

> fourteen poems
> haunt your loved ones
> reminisce about apparitions

table of contents goes here

I was so curious what title you'd end up with century! AND look at you over-achiever; going for 14 poems??? Good luck, you've got this friend!

@alliyah thanks! idk i've always loved the way 14 looks. such a pretty number. far better than 7!

pre-napo poem: ghostly hands on my shoulders

you are lit in warm wax tones,
walking through pumpkins like it
is a sunset midsummer.

we have naught but eachother
here, with only the crows as
witness to what really happens
when you call forth the dead.

it is a pity that séances can never
revive. for there are many things
that i am missing already.

i have a slice of pumpkin pie waiting
for you. but its already too cold now.

i. ataúdes no son para siempre

hay cosas en vida que son para siempre.
como tiempo, cambío, y las fantasmas que te sigue.
y también, hay cosas que cambias.
como los lugares en nuestra corázones,
hay ninguna que puede luchar el cambio.
esto es la regla de vida. y hay nada más que puedes hacer.

ii. patchwork heart holes
come home my ____, do not leave,
and let me intertwine my hands in ____
i am only missing what is gone now,
____ name on my tongue, yet still
too far away to say now.

summer is gone, along with ____.
we are distances, leaps, and bounds
far away from eachother. i still wait
on our favorite swings in the flower fields.

or, my? my favorite swing. i can't think
of the last time someone (forgetting is
a plague.) came down to smell the
lillies with me.

(it has always been you) who will hold my hand?
i yearn for love like romeo but am fleeting amd
innocent like juliet. for nobody will
come to me, i fear.

how does it feel to be (we are so) far apart?
i have never been seperated from something
i love; i do not know the bittersweetness of missing.

iii. migration

the black-orange gusts of wind are flying past,
seeking the sun onece more. hiding from this
perpetual chill that ought to happen.

black-feathered mourners are coming down though,
it seems as if they do not leave. they peck at the
leftover remains of pumpkins that are missing
a candlelight glow.

everything has to leave at some point. in a primitive
sense, we are Seeking. all beings Seek, both tangible
and imaginary. Seeking is as fundemental as Being;
they go hand in hand.

both the gusts of wind and mourners are Seeking,
but they leave for what they Seek, shedding the
past-beings like corpses to rot. Seeking is future-focused
while Being is past-centric.

maybe orange-black and black feathers are both Seeking and
Being, and only tapping into the present to remind everybody of how Fleeting things are. Fleeting is present.

i think i am focused on the Being but never on the Fleeting. i am out of touch with the constant movement of life.

iv. seventeen syllables about absence

change happens like this;
you never notice when it's
all gone. you're missing.

v. motherhasnohopeaboutus

my mother has never been a fearful woman.
she has always been outspoken; a real model
of what progression means. she outshines
the definition of strong-willed.

yet in her everbounding care is a twinge of fear:
that we, in our familal structure, will hsve
to rip ourselves from our home.

she said it herself, in both fear and panic.
"with the way things are looking now, we
night have to leave." but leaving is the
hardest thing to do. this is why i do not like
missing or absence. being without
hurts.

she knows this; she knows all these things
about life. aged and hardened over time.

but i think she knows that i am afraid
of absence. so i hope she realizes that
things are not as hopeless as she thinks they
are.

maybe i won't have to be missed.

vi. functionally

the fundementals of a function is that one input
only equates to one output. and if f(x) = 4x + 2
then f(3) can only be 14.

now functions normally graph and you denote them
in interval notation but often only when they're inequalities.
like piecewise functions. they get denoted like [2, 10),
or (-∞, 9].

but i do not think we (u(i)) pass the vertical line test.
we equate to u(i)= 0∞i, so we are infintesimally
small, and unfathomable.

and neither us nor our inverse could have worked.
the inverse of u(i) is i/0∞, which is worse: undefined.
we do not exist.

our intervals are [∞, ∞] which is impossible.
we are impossible. i guess this is why we were
never solved.

u(i) ≠ w(e), w(e) = e+1 where e <3

w(e) were never fated, so this is why w(e)
are now only u(i).

vii. second wind, second chance

there is no rebirth/no new take on life/no ability to restart/it is impossible/we can only live in our Fleeting/not the Being or Seeking/the Fleeting is all that exists right now/it will be this way for a while/so we shall just have to wait/for an oppritune moment/to recreate an identity/fake it until we make it/make butterfly wings of ash/barren wastelands into frutful oasis/tethered only to the past but not ever to the future/change is the best of us/change gets the best of us

viii. everchanging everhoping
hope is the strongest driving force, aside from despair & revenge;
it is tangible, existing both in the ebb and flow but the waves and air,
it is a butterfly in the wind and a leaf in a stream:
it is possibility; the idealization of memory.
it, in its ever moving state of Being, is also Fleeting and Seeking.
it is present, it has been and will be. like change, but
in change there is a sense of irrevocability,
but hope, is, well, hopeful. for a lack of a better
word, change is changing, it is forever but also
finite, it is Being, and Seeking, and now Fleeting.
hope and change are different enough to
become seperate, but they seem so similar.

viv. summer light, autumn darkness
bright blinding rays cast down my face:
it is warm here. too warm to be called
a home.

i kick up the dirt like it is nothing. its simple
existence infuriates me ; it is nothing like me.
it is simplistic in nature and the beginning and end.

i hate ends.

i hate knowing that things
come to a close.
a final
being.

autumn
is everlasting
it grows the cold:
an unchanging
fact.
cold is
stoic.
it is forever.

forever is a
long time for
a particle of dirt.