Fireflies between your fingers, flaring, twisting twilight—I am caught in moonlust; eerie lull over my collar, I’m all conquered by the absence of the day.
My syllables are such disarray, that I translate into songs to preserve the thoughts of you—that sickened me last night, tonight, and every night after. I spell your name backwards. There’s teardrop from below. My Sun descends eastward.
Dear Carrie, said Lowell,
There was a history before us, with tales never before told, pieces never before seen. We’d senesce and eventually perish, with our ideas petrified, and our preexistence either forgotten or unfortunately celebrated. But together—you and I—we’d perpetually coexist.
Dear Lowell, Carrie said,
Here I am, unbounded and infinite. Untangled and invincible.
To write or to writhe.