If I Met You Two Years Ago, I Would Have Loved You

Yellow paper and a red pen.
A greyish-black laptop.
A screen too bright.
Anything to write—
And what for? he asked,
while my Virginia gently wept.

A block of value actualization—
"That’s not a poetic word!" he screamed.
A block of rhythm—
"Better."
A block of a sort—
any sort
every sort.
"God! Do better."

Read that paper.
Study that course.
Ditch sleep.
Aching body? Ruin it even more.
We’re getting old. We need sleep.
And then it plays,
in the most cliché of ways:
"Ain’t no rest for the wicked."

My life is a long series of plots—
invented, prolonged,
structures thrown upon
every little act.
And what can I do
but push through
until the last applause?

What am I
but a mere man
with too many voices in his head,
not so different from those around?

Titles,
paragraphs,
well-articulated sentences,
rhythmic prose—
all play simultaneously in my skull,
a beat more familiar
than my own self.

"Words, words, words—
nothing but words—
and it does not even make sense.
What for? What for? What for?
Do better!"

Language has ruined my mind.
Take it all.
But bring back my language.
Actually—
take all.
Take the language, too.
I wouldn’t mind.

Words are coming together, huh?

Scattered.
Spiraled.
Saddened.
Stranded.
Strayed.

The dog is about to give birth.
Blood everywhere.
Why the hell should I care?

What, in the name of anything,
would I do?
Why is this my responsibility?
What would I fucking do?

Ask me a question I can answer.

What for?
What for?
What for?

Do fucking better!

Oh, run.
Leave.
Escape.
I’m no language, though.

It just does not make sense—
that the life left behind
should’ve been kept the same.
We said goodbye
for years to come,
until the end of time.
It should’ve remained unchanged.

I'm just a part of an old collective,
a memory trying so much to absorb
both itself
and what is happening around,
that got forgotten in the now.

"Run—
leave."

God, if only one of those papers
would answer.
One.
Only one solid answer
to make up for the structure
that is now—
fractured.

---

Now is untouched.
Now is unbothered.
Go about your day.
Cycle for as long as you like.
Go to work.
Stay at work.
Stay at work.
Stay at work.

The dead are to remain dead.
And those long gone
have only made space
for the young ones.

He died.
That other one died.
And yesterday, his father died.

Every day someone dies—
why make a fuss now?

Now.
Now.
Now.

Now the transaction
did not go through.
Now solve my problem.
Fix my life.
Give me the answer I want.

I would have—
only if you asked me two years ago.

I would have given you every answer there is;
told you why stars appear in the past,
how we're standing on a planet
no different from the one seen every night,
and how facts work in the world.

The structure you once built in belief—
a plot created by your mere mind,
of a mere man.
Every act feeds the plot,
and the plot, with each,
makes sense.

You're the sole controller,
a god on Earth,
the wise of all,
controller of all,
and controlled by none.
Power spirals back to you.

And you?
You spiral
and spiral
and spiral
and spiral—
like that planet you're on.

Ask me two years ago,
and I would’ve answered.

It’s not that they left—
a part you know of yourself
left you,
stranded.

Just ask me two years ago! he screamed.

I would've loved you,
made you coffee,
kissed your neck,
told you about that epiphany,
and read you those yellow papers—
soaked in red.

I would've been there—
as a whole,
full of all the times those stars hide.
My language would've been mine.
My body would've been mine—
just one among others, sure,
but still mine.

Simple expression. Go on.

I would have stayed.
I would have known.
I would have prolonged the plot.
What else?

Do not ask me.
I don’t know.

But if we died?
God, how would I know?

I would've made you breakfast—
something sweet,
and a sandwich, perhaps.
Basil fills the space,
fighting the lingering smell
of last night’s sourdough.

What for?
What for?
What for?

Art is for the art—
there's no ROI this time.

We write to write.
We paint to paint.
We think to think.

(in a serene tone)
It never promised salvation—
it was just there.
And you promised yourself salvation.