On December, oh, one December, I’ve called you along the way,
I’ve covered myself in narrations, and I told you about myself.
Though we were just children, and I said, well, what should I do about today?
I have been feeling perhaps not myself today, like I said,
(I told you about myself, therefore I told a fib),
But, who are we then? What was your name that I forgot?
I couldn’t hear well when we first met,
Though I didn’t lose my hearing, I may as well have damaged it minutely,
The tremor of music does that; I’ve seen crowds thicker than spines and thorns,
For what it lacks, perhaps it was the size of a red phalaenopsis,
A beautiful flower,
Surging into the eyes, preparing a shelter for long closure,
The comfort of these things are not what I enjoy,
No, not anymore, that I do not.
The locust is a much more pleasing thing to look at,
Than perhaps roaches and maggots; though this is only perception,
And how uncanny is it? Life is life, and as Eliot manifested, “Son of man”,
And that can be the options, the very etiolated plant, or that damaged curb,
We’ll never know what it is, and that frightens me more than anticipating what you have to say.
I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not),
All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish,
Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set,
As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down,
Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call.
That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture,
That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day,
The knots curled throughout my voice, cruelly.
I can think of many things, such as the Deathwatch beetle,
Think! That swept my mind, and here I thought I was tense,
But I—I was rattling and all over,
I was possessed by anxiety, and to hear you,
To hear that voice once more,
I thank you for such a long time for listening,
And as well for all your thought.
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Thank you, Elise, for helping me that day. I felt solace.