you were made for greater planes than those of my
stitched-up words and uncapitalized lines, and
for that i apologize.
your dreams take such space, and i know
that my lines are to them what jesses are to flight,
but if i don’t find some way to tether them down they’ll
never come back and i’ll still be here and then—
i’m sorry for taking the words and the shapes of your tongue,
for making them so tiny and small. it’s just
nothing else would work, not rolling them up in a papercrisp ball
or laying them down somewhere flat and quiescent and
i could not
let them go, so i did to them what i always do, when
behind my eyes the imprint of you lingers, so tall and so bright.
i’m not writing this for you, else this would be illumination
upon illumination, golden-leaved and blacklettered
over with gravity and consideration. here it’s just the clickclack of
plastic and the blink of a screen, and it’s
me with my
dotted little is and my dangling dashes and
well it’s nights spent thinking of places to use words like
nadir or arabesque and
mad hours dreaming your speeches tattooed on the lines of
my clumsy hands and thinking of ways to tell you
how when i’m writing like this all it means is that
i’m taking something too huge to be walked away from and
trying, trying to break it into little pieces to pick up
and make into a song.
Jag's ridiculously predictable imagery + style experimentation + 1am = this.
