You have always been poetry to me

 



I can't stand it.
This nothing.

This eclipsed empty thing
that exists where you
used to weave ancient magics
into my aching chest
like an untamed beast
who prowled
through my black witch forest
scratching
and growling
and challenging my soul
to make sense of the contradictions
in my head
and the fraility of my hope
as something more than a tomb
for the future me
to weave flowers against in wait.

And fuck me
how you howled so malformed
and warped
like tiny,
gasping innocent dreams
I'd left behind in the moonlight
as if the language
we raged against
couldn't be restrained enough
within the mere vestige
of common tounge.

Only now
in this god forsaken (almost) silence
do I admit that you've spoiled me
in response to a feeling
that leaves me lurched over;
bent in the fetal position,
begging for the severity in honesty.

Nothing else is ever enough,
and I know,
somewhere deep inside of you,
you understand me
and that this need;
this integral yearning
to rip anything meaningful
from what we are,
is mutual.

God is dying.
God is dying right at this moment
in some angry,
repressed,
insistent death,
but neither of us can grieve
for who we were at 23
long enough to believe in it,
or him,
or who the goddess
nude in our longings
could have conceived
in a hopefully,
maybe one day
I'll wish upon a star
far, far away
for so much more
than what is in
me
(us)
today.

I don't believe you.
I can't comprehend that your passion;
your insatiable thirst for wonder
in a world full of maddness,
and tragedy,
and longing for the dragonflies
to spontaneously enchant us
lonley bleeding martyrs
if only for a second
within our desperate beating hearts-
has quelled
in complacency of circumstance.

I won't accept
that your fire has snuffed away
somewhere
between the dreay ashes of a morning fag
and the embers of a twice puffed procrastination
before class
has become winter and glass eyed
when I know damn well
I gave you every piece
of the most savage flames
that drive's my own existence
years ago
in a tangible manifestation
still alive in a destitute corner
of your bedroom.

Perhaps it's true
that I'm quite literally beating a dead horse
when I say I believe in your success,
but I'll keep trying.
I'll keep maiming my ego
in faith that one day you'll remember
who you really are,
and that you are
a force of fucking god damn nature
you silly,
gorgeous thing.