Blanked
Words dribbling like a man aged from
thirty to ninety in six seconds
His mouth wrinkled over a taught
jawline incapable of flection
The angle splays minute
Sounds garble in the guttural
chamber
Like the dirt from the grave is
already mixing in the dusty waves
As attempts at language fecklessly
rise
He knows no matter the combination
of alphabet
She will make no retort
He is responding like a letter
inevitably lost at sea
Which if ever found will be read by
an entirely different being
Than the woman he cared for
She flicked a message like an
arsonist oily ragged bottle through the window
Tires peeling about who she is, what
she needs
Freedom like a mandate to contraband
shackles
Like what we could be
Fucking plural pronouns drenched in
flammable assumptions
He was happy just reading together
on the couch
Like some bizarre form of heaven to
Fahrenheit 451
A man cannot exist between an artist
and her darkness
In the comfort of isolated sanctuary
No one can pull you out there,
expects you to perform, show up to their event
What they want you to be, between
waking up and slumber
The decisions are never kidnapped
He knows the longing to sit in a
room with that marshmallow pillow of alone
The sweetness of non-judgment of not
having to be what you felt you never could be
Or wanted to be and resented the
idea that someone made you think for a second
You were less than for not wanting
or capable
He knows the battle; the staring
between an alone and a God
Cursing both and incapable of
embracing either
He knows trying to begin again and a
what-the-fuck sunrise
Batting a head screaming for
midnight to make this all go away into hiding
As if life is an inescapable orb of
self one must abide
Attempting to grow, seeds sprouting
disappointment, regret, better not have tried
The season never wound its tendrils
out from winter
Pretending human connection was optional
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