Time isn’t linear,
It binds, stagnates, restricts, and corrodes,
the past entwines with the present;
teasing futures better left undreamt.
So, I hold onto you
as the rest of the world slips and fades
transfixed by the reflection in your eyes
as history shatters behind them.
My reality has become the taste of the adrenalised adoration
poured by my own hand as I hold you.
I found you reading between the lines of my own rapture
then we were left to make sense of the impulses
always so ubiquitous with pain.
We found synergy in contempt,
I wanted the masses to see
but they’d never understand our parade of incomprehensible pretence and apprehension
or the way we paint universes
and only allow the other to step inside.
They’d never understand
how paths threatened to cross
teasing collision,
but we always chose abstraction,
the catharsis in subjugation
where each bruise is a tale of fantasy.
Obedience never leaves room for question.
Even in your absence I never found resent,
just an eagerness which swelled beneath my ribs
as though I’d found the key to the lock on the iron cage
which constricted me.
I write poetry for only flames to see
misanthropic prose which paints you a deity
on a pedestal above the flames
but still, I’m too afraid
to show how the last strings of my sanity are arranged.
This is kinda what my soul looks like