The Unholy Trinity

I. Ambivalence 

With white knuckled hands, you ripped my body apart, piece by piece. You put my blood on your doorpost, scattered my ashes in the fields where no rain would come, made a peace offering with what little was left of me. You tortured me into silence, now expecting me to speak? You press your lips to mine with a hum in your cavernous mouth, with a scorched elation buzzing through your veins, a fire just behind your irises. Oh my love, my love! My frustrating love. You of the sunshine, you of the bitter blizzards, you bipolar movement of my pen and my noose, how do I go about it - wrapping my arms around the corpse of our ecstasy?

II. Admiration

A shaman, a muse, a traveler through my mind, a couch surfing maniac abounding in the thoughts I think, a socket to plug my nonsense into - you serve so many purposes in my land of make believe.

In the matrix, you are separate from me. In our egos, we dance on opposite sides of the sticky gym floor. In our separation, we forget what we once were. You taught me how to love. How could I cease to know the rhythm of the song you spoke into being for me? How could I forget the face of my dearest friend? 

In reality, we are one. Everything is one. There is no duality, there are no faces, no voices to argue, no space in between. In the void, it's you and me, two drops in one sea, and we are a we, and I'm perfectly happy.

III. Adoration

I did not clean the kitchen quite as often as I should have. It took me a week just to finish folding the laundry. I expected much of you and sometimes gave the lesser offering at the altar - Cain slaying his brother in a fit of rage. My heart couldn't take the sheer volume of love that you brought to the table.

And the hell I put you through at times, well that was undeserved. You were flawless to me, a celestial being, pure light surpassing all time and space. Your presence was the antidote to all things. Your heart was the color of my every day. 

Now I have to bring my own hues to the picture, paint with my own brushes. It's so hard not to miss you. 

Now I breathe the night air in deep, and beg the stars to say hello to you for me. (Are we staring, together, at the same one?) 

My Wretched Friend

I watch your complacency like one would watch a dying animal. I watch you from afar, most times, with sympathy and a vague disgust. Heart full of useless love, wasted love, I watch your eyes grow emptier, your smile turn to plastic. I told you, my wretched friend, that I don't think you're happy, and you nearly agreed, but hesitated, and tripped over yourself, memories of our drunk nights filling your head, but the forefront overtaken by the way things appear to be. So concerned with the shoulds, the musts and must nots, you never seem to see your own misery, until I appear to remind you. Collapsing into each other like stars, we only create voids and questions, the answers never appearing, at least not with clarity, nothing solid and real beneath our feet. We only dare to dream of what is possible to build in the space between us, and then turn our backs on it swiftly, remembering, as it were, that the stone you're made of is not the kind that can truly love. No, the stone you're made of is not the kind that could ever love me. 

Still

And still, you exist, somewhere up north, and of course, in the confines of every breath in my lungs. Still, you visit me, in dreams and in dreams of dreams, to the sound of country music and an opening front door and wedding bells. Still, you haunt my eyes in shadows, coloring my face with your wraith-like presence, my cheeks flushing with a warmth untrue. You ring in my ears like a lie, keep my bed cold like a blankety mist, and hold me in sleep, ever so restless. My essence is made up of words you have spoken. In places I cannot separate you from me, cannot untangle your deeds from my perception; my glasses are tinted the color of your eyes. Your body may be miles away, your voice carrying to ears not mine, your time eaten away by the exterior void, but a piece of you follows me, and a piece of me lays in the dark with you, holding out hope for the maybes and the could bes, grasping for straws in a desolate room that we once inhabited together, now vacant. You echo through and fill the space with confidence, still, the marks on your arms still a nightmare that I live in, over and over, just whispering prayers for you and watching the horizon, hoping to see your figure, looming, to swallow my life again. 

He's a Fire

His words go down like whiskey

Drunk on a street-side monologue

He spoke perfectly from Shakespeare

He speaks perfectly every time

The dramatics in his movements

Deter a little from his honesty

But I'd rather have his painted stones

Than nothing from him at all

He's a fire running after demise

A shaman frantically recalling a chant

In the wrong place at the wrong time

I watch him incinerate my despair

But he didn't mean to get involved

Didn't assign meaning to each word

The way I did, and do, and shall

And I watch his hollow eyes watch me