your makeup for the crinkled part of your face as it scrunched so, the
breaking of your cornered eyes before they smiled, wept.
Yes you still use that same mirror I lent in, yes
The same carpet, the same exact part of you that quivered
except the heart, cept the parts that mattered - to someone (I guess not me).
Oh how we fucked around in front of
everyone, everything, making our own lines, taking
the strong depths that suck in all light. No hearts, apparently.
Should seen how funny she be, as I cracked her back
on the floor there with a halo now of animals
so proud to attempt to call her mine: and now?
See her in the paintings now, posters wagging all round town
all the night breeze shuttering in through her open window, a quaking of
the very ground. My utter soul.
We all had our strange rituals,
Her, a decade doth in making, mine
an attempt to better claim her. Now?
That open wound wandering round,
The chords that rise, the little trills upon the edge,
This ego going along with it. Her. Me. Failing so.
All else wavering now, collapsing there,
a love somewhere else so get
behind, get back, get...get...something...there...me...
At least when you can.
Please.
Thanks.
Adieu.
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