You learn to no longer trust any flicker emanating nearby,
sweeping over mysterious blueprints each time,
memory is the victim of histories crashing
and splintering into one another,
as these engines tremble, begin to grow venomous.

You should have known better, love,
than to rewrite such delicate narratives over and over,
losing track of scribbled pages inked on the skin
and walls I'll eventually unearth the many codes of.

I just have to remind myself there's a frightening symmetry to you,
countless minute complexities working in concert
to encase the beauties no architecture can mimic.

Even if I can't hold onto evidence gleaned from
trusting what's found below the fractures,
the canvas beneath a spread of keepsakes and sprawling stories,
a standstill bracing for the impact of histories.

The fatal velocity of recollections held close
to lips and hearts like a jealous secret.

Learning to no longer trust the nectar pouring from the fruits you clench,
the mysterious gardens turned to starved scraps
from crashing and fusing into one another,
as these towering engines circle, begin to grow cancerous.

I should have done better, love, to remember
the delicate symmetry holding us together,
the complex architecture required to take in a minute glimpse,
infinite beauties composing you that no design can recreate.

Even I can't hold on when evidence subtracts us moment by moment,
I'll stay still, bracing for history's fatal crash.