STARVATION OF PURSUIT
Intimate Interrogations of the Disarmed Man
Do you know the intensity in which you care for someone?
As if it’s begging to come out of you,
And in its unconditionalness, brings about the very dreams that haunt you.
The one who bears it all,
I can hear it bleeding from the array of tones in your voice,
The fleeting questions met with silence,
Waiting for answers that may never come but that give you the piece of life you’ve been waiting to care about.
When you say a truth you believe someone else should be living,
Now, oh now I know,
I know how it comes from a place in which you know it’s for the best, and it’s the very reason you’re able to entice people to change.
And I have become stained by you,
Changed,
The immovable has been moved,
And I think to myself that I don’t care what it is, or who it is, that you have found to touch you in replacement of my hands.
Here I am, you’ve never been seen like you make me feel seen.
Do you feel seen?
I think of words to say to you, and then they disappear the moment your eyes flicker, and the silent scent of your 23-year-old stewing aroma engulfs me.
What it is, I’m not sure,
I’m not sure what part of you has developed this flame,
Or which part of you has the ability to put it out.
Cigarettes in between coffee cups,
Lips in between their next words,
And my hands stuck in between wondering if they can touch you, or if the burning sensation from someone with this much vulnerability is too much to bear.
Quite possibly, touch has become an exclusivity.
I think, or thought to myself,
When I saw you from afar,
Then from up close, that you would be nice to know.
And little did I know, that to know you, is to be completely and utterly disassembled.
Versions of who I have become would have lashed out,
But I have been turned into a soft man.
What is a man that longs to be touched,
To make him question whether or not he will ever be again? And I am not sure if I am talking about being a man,
Or being touched, because the two have never existed together but inside an interrogation room.
I have escaped the interrogation room,
And have become the hunter, and you with all your
Ideas,
Dreams,
Explanations,
Rants,
Have no idea the extent to which you are being hunted.
It’s in the moments which you’ve allowed yourself to be beautiful that creates the hunted and the hunter,
You and I.
Do you feel hunted?
Because I’m starving, and I have tracked you through different phases of our lives, but so elusive you have become that you don’t look back.
Looking back has become a travesty,
Wondering,
No,
No wondering if I am still there,
In that moment.
And in this moment, if you retrace your steps,
You may find me measuring whether or not they are yours,
So I am not led down a path in which you do not exist.
Do you know the intensity in which you care for someone?
As if it’s begging to come out of you,
And in its unconditionalness, brings about the very dreams that haunt you.
The one who bears it all,
I can hear it bleeding from the array of tones in your voice,
The fleeting questions met with silence,
Waiting for answers that may never come but that give you the piece of life you’ve been waiting to care about.
When you say a truth you believe someone else should be living,
Now, oh now I know,
I know how it comes from a place in which you know it’s for the best, and it’s the very reason you’re able to entice people to change.
And I have become stained by you,
Changed,
The immovable has been moved,
And I think to myself that I don’t care what it is, or who it is, that you have found to touch you in replacement of my hands.
Here I am, you’ve never been seen like you make me feel seen.
Do you feel seen?
I think of words to say to you, and then they disappear the moment your eyes flicker, and the silent scent of your 23-year-old stewing aroma engulfs me.
What it is, I’m not sure,
I’m not sure what part of you has developed this flame,
Or which part of you has the ability to put it out.
Cigarettes in between coffee cups,
Lips in between their next words,
And my hands stuck in between wondering if they can touch you, or if the burning sensation from someone with this much vulnerability is too much to bear.
Quite possibly, touch has become an exclusivity.
I think, or thought to myself,
When I saw you from afar,
Then from up close, that you would be nice to know.
And little did I know, that to know you, is to be completely and utterly disassembled.
Versions of who I have become would have lashed out,
But I have been turned into a soft man.
What is a man that longs to be touched,
To make him question whether or not he will ever be again? And I am not sure if I am talking about being a man,
Or being touched, because the two have never existed together but inside an interrogation room.
I have escaped the interrogation room,
And have become the hunter, and you with all your
Ideas,
Dreams,
Explanations,
Rants,
Have no idea the extent to which you are being hunted.
It’s in the moments which you’ve allowed yourself to be beautiful that creates the hunted and the hunter,
You and I.
Do you feel hunted?
Because I’m starving, and I have tracked you through different phases of our lives, but so elusive you have become that you don’t look back.
Looking back has become a travesty,
Wondering,
No,
No wondering if I am still there,
In that moment.
And in this moment, if you retrace your steps,
You may find me measuring whether or not they are yours,
So I am not led down a path in which you do not exist.