'the imperfect is our paradise'

The staircase is endless now,
and the window is an opening
stretched elastic by mosquitos in need.
But you and I,
we haven’t grown more different
from each other than how we were
in the beginning,
or have we?
Does living together
also mean growing apart?
But distance may not follow difference,
we could’ve been clones and yet been
repellent to each other,
yet not found closeness in smelly mattresses
and half-torn bedsheets
yet not fallen asleep together

But we did,
and who promised that it would be painless?
who swore that you wouldn’t be looking for me
when I was right there?

Presence changes
As people change

Maybe my presence smells like the plants
we killed together
leaving them beside a light bulb for too long.
Maybe that’s why you smell of musk
and not minted ice anymore
and that is what perhaps dogs sense better than us,
perhaps that's why they don’t need an epiphany
or a breakthrough
because we are so hopelessly experiential,
tied down with a leash to our living conditions
so momentarily sad-happy-existential-sexual,
always looking to complete the whole that
we think we deserve to become,
sooner or later

that we dive right in
when the opening feels like an elastic peephole.
Yet, maybe in the January of 2015,
the mosquitos in need found what they were looking for
rolling along with Maynard’s passivity,
lost again
but a better lost

You and I, my love, are imperfectly evil predators

and this is our paradise.