what you did was more than logical, it was rational.
i mean, if i were in that same situation,
i would have done the same.
but you don't know him. he's abstract and intangible at times.
he appears, then disappears, then reappears
as if by teleportation
but no human has such supernatural power
so does that mean he's not human?
but i loved him and he loved me,
and it's not the same when you tell me he's an actor;
was he pretending to fit his role all along?
he had face paint come out of his fingers
and he grew gadgets in his pockets
for emergency use.
his plays are all directed through sound
and you know about his orchestra.
it seats twenty-eight and when he conducts,
your faces emanate.
i know, but i never know which one really is me,
or if the faces really do represent me.
there was this one face i saw, it had two eyes!
and really now, who has two eyes?
it was always so beautiful to just sit and listen, though.
it was an amazing opus.
and remember when you tried to pick out the notes
as if they were bound to spell out an answer
using seven letters and a couple cents for charity
towards a foundation never founded;
you'd hate to see him go.
but i feel this shiver down my back
and i definitely think it's about time
i took that jacket out of my closet
and bid farewell to days of incarceration to his season.
(c)2004 mai kozai
silence is also music. {1:01 AM}
a dialogue's monologue
it's when the jackets wave hello
out of your closet door
and you think, maybe it is time
you should forget about it all.
like the way his eyes never met yours
or his inferiority complex
against his own pride.
or the way his words never voiced themselves
or his unparalleled faith
for the wrong fight.
you should have seen it
when he smiled.
it was so deadly; each time his teeth reflected
a different side of me that i did not know
and it bewildered me, whether or not he knew of my
many sides. and he was an animation
making his co-stars look lifeless in their skin.
his face was a screen and his hands were the directors
of an unwritten script, his voice his own orchestra,
and each expression arrested you in a trance,
wondering whether or not you were part of his play.
but you feel this shiver down your back
and you think it's maybe about time
you took that jacket out of your closet
and bid farewell to days of incarceration to his season.
(c)2004 mai kozai
silence is also music. {12:30 AM}
the poet
mai sharona.
december 5, 1984.
davis, california.
a sucker for flowers.
