i saw lightning. now just wind. fulfilled those dumb nicotine prophecies, tried to reclaim what i cannot, tried to claim what i do not want. it’s the feeling that substances kill. it needs a surface like the one in the winter. i am no swimmer.
i was born after i was made, a mistake and a miracle, part of a purpose. the clever, the sharp, climbed above me. i cultivated the shine, the layers of mine. i read the plays, paved the way for the pavement, breathed through thick tar and came the closest i’ve ever come, perfect and pure, snow-white with thick promise.
then the curious error in plot: the demurring of my tiny hands. thank you no, too strange. your best chance is to be the bigger man and say, i’ve been mean to you and this is what happened. this is what happened. we were mistaken in our measuring of trust. the golem you became and i, we were selfish with our morals. we were too slow to do wrong enough. the stars are my firmest friends, my most persistent enemies, tattoos of loneliness, the bitterness. if i have grown my own constellations, they come from an expansion more rapid than elastic. it was my opinion that the world does not deserve you. you and i, we loved you. the others stretched like giants, and i was too strange.
