a building burning

Maybe I’ve died and gone to hell

where the world is being torn apart

and the rare moments of sun

are so I don’t become immune to the horror of being alive.

Or maybe the Devil went and snuck something rotten into my soul.

It makes me sick. So sick, I ‘ll be forced by my own hand to join him in acts and in passage.

12/22, 10:30pm

Joe

so what is he like?

  12/22, 10:33pm

ABuildingBurning

we laugh quite a bit. he's got this complete genuine nature about him, at some points slightly oblivious. something inhibits him from forming his own original thoughts on complex themes. but he, in one evening, taught me a lot about intimacy just by proxy; the real romance that is involved that i hadn't understood before.

  12/22, 10:38pm

Joe

I wish I could help

this sounds like awful situation

the moving, not the guy

  12/22, 10:39pm

ABuildingBurning

i know it's better this way; i'm still too much a romantic. i would build it up bigger than any human could live up to and then become disappointed by his humanity. this way i can just have the dream of it, you know?

  12/22, 10:41pm

Joe

Yea

My reason holds back my resolve and my finality.

I don't think you understand that in no uncertain terms, I want you.

How does want turn to need?

The dead of this summer can smell the melancholy of the last that never lasted. That is the dying nature of the season; sunsets to shadows to orange skies to grey.

Hours from twilight, shadows are stretching and weaving into the air we breathe,

carrying pollen on the tail,

   In the land of gods and monsters we sat silent, trying to reach the stars. I can’t say now or for the future that I want you, but I know for certain that I wish I could have you mumble through Lana in time, softly breathing, calm in nothing, through a night. You become so many things I wish to covet. I can never own that room at the museum. I can never own all the blood red carpet or the promises made by the voices of gods or the light that not even spirits can drown. If I really could, I’d try to come close.

   I could take you late, right before it closes. All those voices that love their world through a lens would be gone, their smell and smudges safe in bed.

   The lights, as they are and always have been, will be low. The air is heavy with the sighs from all those crystalline structures, the breath of the Tetons. How can those slow working ghosts create so precariously these finite pieces?

Your photos make my choler rise

only because

I find indignation in each reply.