theological sentimentalities
By: ShinigamiForever

Back when I was young and inexperienced,
(which is not to say I am not now; it is simply to say back when I was, implying it was in the past,
but not so much in the past as if to make the present the future)
I had once said we must try all things twice.
That kind of mistake is almost unforgivable if it were not for the fact
that he is the type of person that makes you want to believe
you were wrong the first time.

Intuition, like desperation, is formless and graceless and boldly depressing in its orgy of combinatorics and asymptotic probabilities.
Enough. Back to him.

If it were not enough that he looks like pious sins in a black shirt,
when he wears white he looks allegorically and angelically wrong.
I think in a streamlined way, streamlined like treachery with white cotton seams. I want to leave him behind. I want to give him away.
But he is not mine to take, nor mine to walk with. He is a strange attractor, and in other words,
butterfly graphs do their share of awkward mathematic poetry. Indulge me.

There is so much more to become when you have tasted it all and even if you have only done enough to redeem yourself from the depths of
a post-modern Dante and his commercialized hell,
there is still so much to attempt and revolt against when conformity has tried what conformity knows best.

He is all that we can no longer see in our double-banded half blind sight.
He is watercolor when all of us have decided to be oil and if that failing, tempera.
And he is bleed-worthy, one of the only bleed-worthy spaces left.
He will always be something cold,
something the rest of us cannot help but think about when we are forced outside to judge the hospitality of winds,
and he will always be in Technicolor
and he will always be a name on the interior of a textbook.

I am waiting for him to be tired, perfected, marred, and not saintly like Aquinas who believes in the immateriality and therefore immortality of souls.
Somewhere in the indignant careless rumors about military cut ash gray hair and ink blotted eyes and splintered bubble gum lips,
it is-- tired, remembering saint's names, peeled and flaked until-- he, eyes moving up
forgetful
mono-phrasal
parchment
bracketed

quiet.