telephone line by elo.

november 27, 2018 — 3:40 pm

---

past poetry polluting the present,

letters of intent sit silently on your desk,

already knowing what it says.

---

i can’t tell if it’s grotesque or romantic

and kindly, i panic without you knowing.

semantics suggest that love is dead.

necromantic rites wanting us to come alive,

yet frantic; patience poisons our preservation.

the cycle is billowed and bothersome,

but it gives us a reason to be sad,

and again, we choose what is familiar.

---

letters of intent sit silently on your desk,

a statuesque of an autonomous relationships.

copilots navigating through mountains and valleys,

rallying teams of emotions, understandings,

and love as endless as life itself.

---

when the sunrises, i see you.

when the sunsets, i want you.

when the rain pours, i hear you.

when the clouds cover the sky, i feel you,

and again,

and again,

and again,

and again,

you want that too,

with someone else you knew.

---

you don’t say you love me,

so i’ll do the same.

the roses are dead,

i hope you find some once again.