Unfinished, unpolished, but...

Unguided and lost, I floated unconscious through a web of worlds, a tangled brush of unearthly verses and love-drunk phrases; and the whole arrangement appeared more natural in its beauty than most everything I have read. These dreams and realities are the purest illusions of another man; one who died ages ago yet exists, more alive than I feel most days. It’s his realms, and his truths that I explored, and I dove headlong into the madness of it. And as I peer endlessly onto pages of poetry, palm-pressed firmly, flat, against the floor, I stress the frailness of the book with the utmost affection, and keep it pryed open with a tender familiarity that allows its secrets to shout back, upward against my soul, so passionately,  like the sudden kiss of a zephyr against my brow. Here I seem so many miles from the mundane, and I long to drift, slowly, and sink further, and further. So few poets do capture this maelstrom of emotional likeness, the mess of the ineffable seized perfectly, and sadly, there are those who bask in the unknown. Deprived. For his prose very near embodies the essence of why I write, very nearly. But my truest muse lays naught but a few feet to my right, prone and positioned more comfortably than I, I hope.

She is a woman, a queen; whose simple presence sets me aflame, and begs me to distraction. So I take a reprieve from these realms, and lend my attention now to my own; her, and the intricacies of her: such as the delicate movements of her hands, made as she slowly stirs her tea, to the lovely curve of her pursed lips, and down the slope of her neck across the rise and fall of her shoulders, till finally after trailing full-circle, she speaks,

“Spin me a story,”

And I catch her looking with a half-smile, not so worried about whether she witnessed my intrusive stare, or caught the hunger in my eyes,

“Very well,” I whisper, and divert my gaze to the space between us, letting the chambers of my mind empty themselves of nonsense, and spin a story that would change her perception as Hafiz, or Bukowski, or Collins have changed mine.
That way, at least, she’ll always have my stories if she’ll never have me.