in the throes of a tragic reversal (rev 1)

My bedroom is cluttered with film strips of our hearts sliding back and forth on parallel wires running from my sunken chest to yours. Two hearts move in a still frame. I have placed a cloth over my true love's face because desire has taught me my name is futility. I think it's only the truly hopeless that find something brand new in life to save, causing them to repeatedly dream of the counterfeits of heroism. I am looking for a logical idea of what love is all about so I lose my happiness. The last things you said to me are "a wind that bends you over the foundation stone of compulsion and disturbance means you know how to die continually" and "sometimes you must get your ass kicked into being receptive". Your refusal to open a door that you slammed shut turns the rupture into an interruption that gives me ellipses for fingerprints. Why does other always become the analog of love? I will re-plant the trees uprooted by the flood pouring out of the thicket of our bodies. The flood is milk mixed with whiskey. Muddy, with hands drenched in solitary residence, I burrow the quaking aspens deep into warm morning. Looking in your footstep, I saw ideas of consequences. We will talk of other things now. The orange early-morning sun coats the trees in brown sugar. Give me your hands so you can't wave goodbye.