something stronger than a sunrise

Chapter 01: serial sunrise
Chapter 02: lovesick lately

a heart of beating brass
i want to stamp and forge a new truth
as old as the sun and its each freshest rise
rebirthed each day in a gaseous theseus

tell me this which is the accuracy of gods
do you know yourself any better than other people?
yourself, a contextual being
and god is given to gaming other people

i am not so proud as the sun
i am not so perfect
i am not so confident in my own strident and glorious repeatability
the mass of slow senebration broiling space to dust

i wish to sublimate through the dissolute phase
drive into the sun and stay there
the sun is too large for details
i could keep its celestial records

nor am i so sedentarily complacent as the calm and reflective moon
the moon, which is pulled and which pulls
the moon, which is pale and patient
the moon, which is content to be complement

i can feel my skeleton crumbling in
caving through the pressure of atmosphere's release
the earth bears no responsibility for me
i may as well be a wayward cosmonaut

and i am unhomed
inertial frame too small to let these changes unregister
each day is too different
i need something bigger than a sunrise

the presentable social commodity of a platonic love
its inflorid flexibility, its pliable propensity to spread broadly and indiscriminately

likable people are people who like, people who enjoy
lovable people are people who love, people who indulge

is that how that works?

in this way i shrink from the language that might most aptly describe-

i find myself stranded, surrounded by rampant and inaccessible abundance, captured by a wild desire

i feel hungry in a manner that platonic lovers are not meant to be

we are not meant to be left wanting. we are not meant to be wanting at all.

platonic love is not something you are supposed to want, something you work on. it comes to you and it is practiced by happenstance. it's hello and goodbye and talk of things that have already happened or are just about to.

idle talk. it fills the void - it does so by being part of it. it's not meant to be one of those things you cram feverishly into your soul in the wanton hopes that it heals you. you get what you get, and you don't get upset.

platonic love is not supposed to be a decision, a practice. you're not supposed to be good at it. you're not supposed to be able to be bad at it.

(i don't know what to say about siblings. don't ask me)

and so i feel this guilty shame, heavy with all the secondhand weight of the fact of its grossest misplacement

i wouldn't choose it. of course i wouldn't choose it

how am i sick from happenstance?

(how can it only be happenstance?)

that is to say, i suppose i don't deserve it
i suppose i do deserve the opportunity to practice

but each juncture still does leave me sick with desire. the cure is the disease is the cure

it doesn't look good. it hardly even feels good. i suppose it is like sex, though - anything you can get