Caffeine Supernova, #1

It is very basic:

A la chacun selon ses facultes,

A la chacun selon ses besoins--

but I always feel I lack necessary control:



over time. Moments slip pass my fingertips,

those frail tentacles climbing the mountain of holding on,

instead of clutching on frozen unfamiliar nipples,

fingering chords that yell out broken melodies;



over space. This self never occupied any square mile,

a misguided ghost passing through, only looking,

searching for scattered underwear at 3 am, look pass the bed,

look pass the person who meant everything 2 hours ago,

if only semen possess enough meaning to signify the weight of this being:

what is this being? Being nothingness. Being whose density is only measured

through the length of this penis, always wishing for more, but always, if not forever,

fading;



over you. The creaking door is followed by your steps, your heels ringed on your fingertips,

this moment of goodbye, the fulfillment of this journey: what began will end, and we end here,

how could hands that we used for reaching out is also the tool for letting go?

how is it that the very same tools for letting go cannot hold on to anything other than our physical desires?

Why can't I literally hold your hand and make it mine until my fingernails rot in your veins?

Why can't these questions become daggers that pierces the shell of our souls when they are left unanswered after every stanza?



and over me.

This self is an intangible other, my reverse image in the mirror. My desires are but black swans in a sunset horizon, flying away before crashing on the blue glass. Watch orange skies bleed, let go, sing: a la recherche du temps perdu.



I know: for a long time, for what seemed like an eternity of eternities, I went to bed early.