Will you open your mind for me?
You lay atop my chest
on the lounge floor.
“Open your mind,” I say.
“Please adopt this state of being.”
It’s like a gift,
and I just want you to accept.
It’s all this clutter we must shake away,
and the world changing therein.
“Is it your stutter over intimacy?” you ask.
“Is it that rapture you’ve sought all this time?”
Indeed, it is a test.
Indeed, it’s a sickness hidden as a need.
You know all the constructs
about halves and loves.
"It’s not some stutter on my fallacy," I say.
"Definitely not the muttering of some boy."
And, as you open your mind for me,
please remember the limits
and that there are none.
You lie, taking rest across my chest.
Blood passes between us
as we breathe in suns and moons.
“I wonder what’s out there,”
you say, pointing to a star
with a faded blue beam.
“I wonder what’s in here,”
I say, pressing my finger,
tracing my finger across your fringe.
It’s funny how mortality
makes us try to live our lives
as if we’d never had the time before.
“You can’t have time,” I say.
“It all comes down to luck.”
“And so why do you wear it?” you ask,
scratching my chin through my beard.
“To fend off the predators,” I reply,
nonchalant; some unexpected instinct.
“Good for you,” you say, then spit.
“Did you open your mind?” I ask.
We’re all guilty of subscribing to society.
We’re all victims here.
If you open your mind,
you could alleviate the restrictions.
“I’ve seen you stutter over reality?” you say,
rising like a wildfire.
“But I am ready for the test.”