On dreams and the vomiting of hearts

You are a gaping wound
on which your absence
pours salt, sodium
tastes good
but I am a fool
and your love is no longer
the gold I seek.
 
You visit late
at night in dreams
where you are a phantom
because I cut the chord
You are an existence
but my absence
has turned you into a spectre
of the person I once knew.

My apologies are less solid
than the vomit on the backs
of my olive-tinted skin
I have tainted you
in the murdering of 'us'
Is it a mystery?
to you, perhaps
you will never know
why I slunk into the shadows
I carry you in my palms
but no longer bear your burden
 
Once, you called me
cold of heart
and perhaps this is true
having culled you twice
You are a wounded fox
The trust in the tryst
undying on your part.
 
But how long do I
have to carry the bullet wounds
that echo soundlessly
on the tin of my heart
 There is no tick,tick, t i c k
of any revolver
Pain is the silent
pill we both have to
swallow.
 
Silence
Is midnight black
the clouds are red in its sky
and the sun never sets
to make way for the bloodmoon
to which I howl, begging not for
forgiveness, but for understanding

Because like you, I am misunderstood
my art is unworthy, unlike yours
my life is worthy, as yours is
and you may argue the truth of that
my walking (un)dead devil in no disguise

Disgust?
It sits firmly in my soul
and plays out like a
never-ending nightmare
in terminating the terminal
cancer of our psychcotic
prison that you called 'love'
and I called 'hurt'
I have cracked the
Morse Code
of the shackles
on my wrists

Do you know
Morse Code?