S E L A B E   K U T E


The tender tentacles of time have permitted my trespassing spirit to document and resuscitate our love from many a yesterday past in my head. It’s somewhat difficult to elaborate on it all, without having the wrinkled fingertips of regret hovering over my lonesome skin. I guess I’ve counted the seconds in groups of two, trying to marry them to compensate for our lost duality. Your fragrance still scatters through the city and often leaves me chasing invisible gusts of wind yearning for the breathlessness you induced in me. I’m not sure if this is a letter, or an arbitrary collection of sentences which make up the hieroglyph connecting our airy presences together again. Whatever.

The difficulty I find in simplifying things is incomparable to anything else I experience throughout my day, often unnecessarily layering already thinning streaks of life and searching for fault in seemingly perfect spaces of time. Today, I constantly live in passages of incompleteness, scouring for remnants of angelic scents – gazing for your invisible butterflies and listening to the muted loops of your voice in my head. The hymns radiating from the destitute misbeats in my chest are symptomatic of a heart that has lost its spiritual pulse, a pulse that slow dances with fate and embraces your curvaceous whispers. You’re gone, and it too has become jaded as a result. You’re autumn, fleeting between the seasons of my mind. Descending, falling – from grace.

You’re the single most distinctive addition to my fledgling life, rounding the edges of my tumultuous spirit. I don’t know how to articulate this in a more sophisticated type of way – but I love you. I always have, and I always will.


For more by Selabe Kute: check out his site.

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