Being versus Becoming

Imagery of poets screaming into microphones. Telling the stories of the time they heard the warnings of dangers that lie ahead.

I now remember summertime. One text, one time to show you my horrible communication skills. A new friend gained with the newness of Spring. Months went by. I can’t catch how long on the sundial. Days and shadows got longer, but I still could spend every moment with you. I rise from my coffin and the sunlight doesn’t burn and I wish I knew then what I know now, but I am glad I didn’t. I am glad that I was able to be buried under the weight of a significant other. Signing my name in their skin and not calling it alien. Though we alienated ourself from this world, the cave we lived in together felt like extra terrain crafted from our hands. We sheltered each other understanding the significance of being extra terrestrial beings. The significance of being. The difference between what we want to be and what we were becoming. I only wish that you could come with me.

I became another poet screaming into the microphone about ripping a lover from my chest and it tears me apart knowing Adam and Eve couldn’t be if Eve remained a rib.

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