Censorial Deprivation

Censorial Deprivation

I am exhausted from trying to convince other people to care about me.  It should not have to be so hard.  This constant rationalization based on pittance pats of desire treating every molecule of a semblance of interaction as mana in a desert.  I am a famished fool.  Back in the cave, spasmodic idiot.

The predictability of silence has me praying for deafness so that I could be fooled into a divergent iteration of response coming back to me in these salvos of human seepage.  Keep it in the angel of the human strum, the harp-song prostitution innately ours to reach out for a connection from within these prison bars.  We know there is no one there and yet we stretch.  We know the geometry of shoulders, width of synapse between the iron, yet we expand to feel the skin of the other crying in our pondered oceans sailing there in broken station. 

I want the sound of a new break down and written clean if not for a generation of broken seams.  I miss you everyday and I am not sure if it is because I am lonely or if it is you.  I have not seen you in so long and my senses are blurred.  I remember the scent of you stopping by dropping off an Easter cookie and April feels like a lifetime ago.  Something inside me barters that there is a future for us out there and you need this time to prove that we deserve to exist or some sort of logic that maybe you are enjoying this other man in your life far better than me.  I am only a fallback plan an alternative I do not wish to feel like.  I do not wish to be this infinitely optional un-chosen ghost of a partner to be walked-out on again and I am broken in a thousand directions. 

Everyday is full of heavy breathing and questions, questions, questions, as if the faith that God exists and ration has a place in this universe that you and I had a purpose to be beyond what has previously been is at risk.  I feel so sophomoric, foolish to contemplate such delusions.  Midnight has already struck and I am still staring at my watch waiting for the day to change. 

Are you even who I hope you are?  Am I just praying on an enigmatic illusion, phantom one-touch more and there you go flying off to other shores thinking I know why things were the way they were before, so afraid and junkie jumpy and gone you go and left me coming up snake-eyed dead and daunted heavy, callous and privy to a bevy of conjecture assaulting the humidity of sleepless blood that never comes to rest. 

This conjecture in me bends to say that you need me to love another before you can contemplate the day that we could ever be a we again.  I am trying to wash myself with a rebound-stimulating melt and yet I can find no voice to respond.  The world is a vapid hole.  No face is calling and I am buried in the bold aching truth of knowing just how alone I truly am. 

I pray my book will bind the stage of where God wants me to go as if proving will in this world and God to be born in the nest of all my mistakes to script these chapters of gut-wrenching life.  Maybe I must be alone for me to take that step and so I am going as fast and as natural as I can whether it matters to an us or you or not.