The Pattern of My Thoughts

What matters meaning?
I look through a hole
in the sky or in my heart
and poke my finger through
or at least pretend to...

Eyesockets empty
waiting for glass orbs
shattered by thunder.

Tremble in the yellow dew
while the heat argues for me
inside my head.

Every finger poking the sockets here.

Sockets in the sky.

Thunder in the dew.

These are the things
I think
when I feel you here.

Logic not followed.
Meaning erased from brain cells.
Reality, spatiotemporal, phemonena,
objective, subjective, empiricist,
existentialist...

Clouds pour down now -
the visitation of November mist,
leafless trees, gray from left to right,
my sight, my smell, my touch, my taste, my sounds
wrapped up in analytical meanings
all just as useless as what I just wrote.

But when the swimmy feeling
wakes me up at night,
do you think I care?
I don't.
I still want you.

Logic not followed,
no meaning, no reasoning,
just aching hope
from some other part
of the mind.