Pseudopsychosis.

I.

In my willing, I was

there: just as I pictured you,

and tempts me in a way

entertaining my heart

II.

Like the cat in the windowsill,

                        I want to remember

            your face, the maddened rain

                        when you think you’re alone

you never are;

my cynical tongue                   says to wait

                                    but I won’t

my flowers still bleed                         God, hear my prayers

please

III.

Memoir of madness;

I am too quiet

                                    but if I reflected nothing

then I too was absent from the snow-white

aberration; if this is a leap of hope, then I breathe

it crawls onto my chest

                                                abandoned when our stares meet—

hello,

please don’t—

                        This is temporary,

I know that; I’ll press flowers in your bed

the childhood of your home

            to witness your temples, your silhouettes, your wounds,

                                                                          your whispers;

[I’m] on your loveseat; there sits a book in your car
a mist which claims your hand; ancient hills and cattle

early morning, hungred; my death resigned
in her bedroom; a pharaoh’s whip on my heart, laughing, solitary like a bone-flute’s palette to the air,

to be born in fluttering meadows; your lips appear with mistaken blood; and a tissue on pink pores

                                    a stretch of god
            the arch, and barefooted memory

in an April of the tides,

aquiver, my delirium, it’s not too strange;

you’re mine.

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Written for the 08/10/2021 dVerse poetics prompt:

Be voyeurs, peeping through windows and doors of a house, one that has no family connections, no memories of our own to call upon:

• conjure an imaginary house of any size, any place, any age
• fill it with an imaginary person/people past or present, or ghosts,  or leave it empty with its history
• make it literal but move into the metaphorical if you wish

God, this was the worst thing I’ve ever written because of how uncomfortable it made me feel. The interpretation is literal; the narrator is stalking someone they want to romantically pursue, and I didn’t like digging into this mindset too much. However, I wanted to write a poem of this nature for a few days after having this version of Every breath you take in my head.

I’ll probably revise this later–something is nagging me to in the back of my head.