By Eleanor Lin
I always had a weakness for the Beauty,
anything to make my heart move unexpectedly,
Monet’s tranquil lilies or Rosetti’s sumptuous damozel—
meanwhile you loved that livid swirlscape,
all I saw was horror, hideous, no harmony of color,
form, or function: a miasmatic and a senseless daydream—
yet shouldn’t I have understood, wasn’t I
the one who sought solitude's discordant darkness
when the honeyed tones of other tunes seemed too bright
for life?—Sometimes one needs a mirror
for the shattered world which drowning we voyage
in midnight's half-dreamed state. Then absurdism makes
perfect sense, for to dream is terrifying
and also wondrous. Anything can happen for no
particular reason—my own words from the distance of
two years, better but not enough do I understand
two intimate strangers solacing ourselves
in a eternity of
daydreams
