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I Am Santo

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Living With It

My impatient eyes know too little of you and jealousy courses through my veins informing blood as much as oxygen, coloring the roads under this thin skin green instead of blue. I’ve loved you too much and for too long, known too much dissatisfaction in the course of these many days to be expected to honor requests for moderation and calm. The torrid heart knows nothing of calm, and I sweat at the rage pulsing through each useless limb I wear like loose clothing causing stumble. This is fire, threatening to erupt as if my center was the Earth’s core and I, gagged by a clot of igneous rock informed by common sense and what’s supposedly right, tremble in suppressed silence.

How is this right?

How can the denial of even a second shared between us be justified by any any rule of law, be it man’s, nature’s, or that of a deity revered in the dried death of a billion forests filling the understanding of countless dreamers?

We can assure ourselves of promise, but how well have such words held in the past? Shattering bonds may be new for a beautiful heart passed down through generations of tenderness in the sweet Southern sun, but it’s common practice for the frigid climes of these Northern souls, where warmth is increasingly found only within, an autumnal dusk chased by cold stars. Our frozen nights measure our selfishness as the distance from a heart’s desire to that of a single speck in the cosmos that shifts out of view when addressed directly by the eye.

There is no room for anything else beyond the stated need, even truth, as the declaration is a totem in a barren landscape that plays at vitality but in which roots find no nourishment, dry, and slink back to the ashen ground as hidden lovers into an unmade bed. To allow anything but what’s yearned for is to honor false idols, to sit and kiss the feet of an enemy and suck the cock of a love that’s been barren of worth despite the good weather awarded. It doesn’t matter how long the prayers were recited or how long the salt of seed filled an inviting mouth, once the light of this day cast its shadows across the accumulated kindness of a filtered happiness, to deny its warmth is to lie.

And yet we must lie. To ourselves and in beds where our undisciplined spirits find no connection and the fulfillment of lifetimes of craving is arrested by the necessity of facade so that young eyes find no pain and the promises of old retain some kind of merit regardless of the vacancy in these kisses and smiles. We have found us, but carry on with endless denial while others kneel in ignorant worship.

It can’t be right, but it has ensured this commitment is borne of nothing but invincible dedication. For anything else would fail.

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