Old poetry.

Its so strange. To want to ask you to come to the comic store.

(did you even think that maybe the doors will be locked?)
(is it even open on a sunday?)

*I've always felt this way.
*Is this what I have always done best? better than anyone else?
My streaming consciousness, falling down like water, but a silent murky version.
Dense, filled with tiny specs of color so very far from the clarity of cool life.

In the very far corner of my mind, I wonder if my hair is growing long so i can impress you.
You.
You.

My duality is such that I'm imprisoned in this piteous pale flesh.
Every room is too bright.
I'm hiding behind so much more than a gradient lens.

Each material thing to grace my fingers this week has turned to art.
Wasn't this what I was searching for when I stumbled upon your far superior and finely tuned mind?
Fuck.

Yes.
Yes.

As if by a divine grace.