Early efforts never bled so deafening. Senseless this, the way it pools up in the ear. There is no hearing this. There’s no ear hearing. There is not one to hear it, therefore it deafens.
Oh, thou art lost to me, my love, my loss, my lay, my liar. Thou art distant, far-removed. (For this I need my All Important voice as this is all of Biblic’ Import.) The indiscretion of it was only in the fictive sense, the fantast tense or the “if only”. Oh, if only.
If only we’d imagined it a bit more. If only we had dreamed more densely the desires we designed to reinvent our lives, the lies we loved so, oh to climax, oh to crisis, oh to blindness, my love, my little liar rising in my mind to heights divine most heavenly. Most Heavenly High, my flight into thy lies and mine on wings of feathered discredit. Oh, my indiscretion fictive. Oh, my secret smile to wile away the time until if only entered in except if only never did nor could have. No. Nor never will.
And what is this remembrance then I have in mind online? My love for longing possibly. My shameful lingering here and there awaiting thee? Like that dog of Pavlov’s, possibly, I salivate at cyberspace as I was trained to do so. Trained by thee. By thee and me again. It’s my deception also, oh indiscretion of mine. My lie. My love. My liar. Never my lay but fictive, lying far away from me and safely.
Safely, I do hope. Safely, I desire. Smiling. Smiling secretly for me. But no. But yes. If only is no sin. Oh yes it is, so thin it’s worn as to be indecent cover for the corpus of us crucified in myth and legend as a fetish treasured, fetid. Finally, let it die. No rising.
Oh, if only.