Eclectic Lesson

Reflex

Abigail smells of adult fragrance,
Of automobile leather,
Of cigarette smoke,
And cubicle fever
She feels foreign, but inviting,
Sheltered in wrapping paper,
Upholstered in all sides by post stamps,
Royal seals and “Fragile” labels

Found her in the twilight
Of a movie theater
In her dark heavens
From my noble underworld,
And protected by the fabricated night
I followed, and hunted,
And feasted on her careless demeanor
From the corner of my eyes

In dying sunlight, I grew younger
Young and foolish, quite tongue-tied
Throwing stones, every now and then,
To keep her ghost awake,
To keep that yearning at bay,
And portrayed indifference
In fear of being caught imploring,
Praying, requesting
For a fragment of absolute, perennial attention
The remnants of some long-lost,
Willfully-forgotten,
Notion of affection

Drank the night away
With wine and hopes,
Each one different from the other
And spoke with ashtray breath,
And blackened teeth
That spoke of loss and misunderstanding
And everything that placed her
So far away from me

Though I meant to stay apart,
I was pulled and pinned
To her permanent spot,
From which I orbited ´til dawn,
Caressed by her lullabies,
Singing me to sleep,
Chanting that we shouldn´t be
Closer than that

And I sank into anticipated sorrow,
Knowing there would be no love, nor lust,
No word nor letter,
That would bring her back to me
In my dreams, I welcome her back
From her voyage to the void,
And her baggage makes no harm
But heals our muted heartache.

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Guesswork

Guesswork was our civil law
Our greatest skill and biggest flaw
And all the things I never saw
The gears have spun
And I am left perplexed

For every bit’s obscurity
The words I write, the things you see
The noises you always mishear
A puzzled root
Grew on my sounds and texts

And I did found it distressing
Semi-bleak, semi-depressing
That all this time
You have left me guessing

And you’ve been my curse and blessing
A riddle I have been obsessing
Of, but all this time
You have left me guessing

Guesswork was our mother tongue
Our dearest book, our favorite song
And I admit that I was wrong
Three years have gone
I’m still hesitating

A polysemic property
That lived inside you and me
Refused to do things properly
It broke our hopes
But our stories were amazing

Guesswork was our twisted plot
A haze in which we shared a spot
A crime in which we both got caught
Permanent fog
We should have stayed indoors

When vagueness turned to daily news
Began a chase for hints and clues
And I learned to play the blues
Some kind of love
You just can’t buy in stores.

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