Yes, I did listen everywhere.

The snow is falling so silently it could make me deaf. 

There is that greedy, ravenous awakening inside me, the desire to colonize the heart of another, no, to be a guest, to inhabit another's heart as a sought after presence and allow their impression to weigh on the vacancies of my own. More, to pull my heart into the eternal, into wholeness. Yes, to sit in silence. Transcendence. Immanence. 

Blood freckles on my forearm from the stressful snapping of my hair-band, unconscious habits that leave us marked. 

God in

 tumbling white branch tangles

tearing at some chamber

deep below water

purple green blackness

my head bent against the separation

a pane, cold living, breathing

on the other side

  God in
 my neutrons firing 
down woven corridors, seeking

something hidden, something

sliding around corners

 chasing

God, God...

crooked shoulder blades

shh, shouted, whispered into

the cracks inside me

into the surrounding waves

swarming over me

disguised cravings

cloud dust spilling off your shelves

unto our terra madre

snowfalls so loudly, blaring against noise, 
snow falls bellowing 
disassembling, dislodging

"this" inside me

shaking lose, loss, lost what exactly?

God, this hunger is so great

the edge-teetering, teeth gritted desperation

collapsing inward in concentric circles

tinier, tinier, till nothing

"this" something, sliding out

my head pressed against the pane

I can not float into the night

to fall, so loudly, so noticeably

my soul pressed against

the immense isolation of me

unbreachable

if i could reach into the cold, these atoms would slow enough to pass through gaps of material, break apart, chip, chip, chip

one day slowly I will decay

and the drenched, impenetratable I

will dissolve, but I will have gone before seeing

these atoms

that once were my mother's blood 
(from where else did I come?)

and now my sole possession

I can not reach through

one day, it will be too late

so lay I in a field of snow

the naked soul, and discarding

all hope I am not another

but a collage of every moment's impression

and here the snow, You, I, become

the pane, the borders

the barriers, the old-sames. 

he will be gone soon, (there are no uppercase people), merely humans breathing, bleeding, being. I watch his eyelashes blink- a collector of observance, nothing will ever happen there to bond our atoms, only our brains will touch over similar frames, over words, the conjuring of a perception related to name. he will be gone soon, and I will continue stretching toward freedom. He is a brushing sensation, a moment's impression, inflection, forming me somehow without, ever, touching.


[there is so much to say about things that matter, but words for another day.]