I am
a smeared
scrawled out
conquered chalk outline
on an incinerated
cinder block wall
To be washed away
in seconds
without a second thought
Like the last beams
of a dying son's light

In a haunted dead fall
anchored by the more inspired
of my heartstrings
and the more hidden
of my hidden things
you reside

We pause to rest on the hilltops just before
the afternoon gives way to evening
While her young child
crawls innocently across the grass
A tiny cherubic visage silhouetted by the slow flare
of the summer sun enshrining the scene
She tells me
that even with these things
that bring her such intense joy
the darkness would not relent
It was always there taunting her
just beneath the surface

She tells me she wants out of these panicked strain eclipses
tugging cantilever protrusions through heart chambers
The worry of writhing sickness murmuring like scorned blasphemers retreating to cimmerian shade
Incessentally dominating
the pleasant moments of her life

I could not offer any reassurances
other than to say
Perhaps these moments
must interlace
forever woven together by
the passage of time
that we are blessed and doomed
to walk alongside them simultaneously
And that just as light and dark
are separate parts of the same day
Our experiences
are just different expressions
of a magnificent existence
on an unstoppable wheel.

There are years of
rusted crimson coating the rails
corroding the way we once traversed
and the secret walkway stones
only we could ever navigate
when the beaten path was
too crowded
have been smoothed bare
We anxiously stand apart
in this seemingly
final void of a thousand
chasms overgrown with
agonizing truths
Every bit of strength
devoted to fighting against
tumbling off the edges
As pain weighs on us with inevitability
falsely alleviated by tiny
brief
moments we disguise as stability
we scrape by
with scarce resources draining
We are
exhausted
and
hurt
and
unsure
Yet in this treacherous space
between us
that we fear falling
into
there is
An untamed look our
eyes
A tremble our
embrace
And a longing in our
hearts
that we cannot ignore
and I know
that our love can outweigh
all hurts

What is this life
of overwhelming
cognitive dissonance
denial
and outright hypocrisy
that comes with living
as a human being?
How is it that we
get so caught up
on agenda and ideology
when the very concept
of consciousness
and reality
is something we are
unable to fully articulate?
I have set myself apart
with thoughts forming murky
impressionist fluctuations
of ever spiraling brain chemistry
to where sometimes
existence
feels all at once
like an absurd joke
and a sacred and mysterious gift.
So many people seem so certain
as if they are pointed in the exact direction
they should be
Waving flags
and preaching their truths
and killing in the name
of a thousand other fictions.
In comparison to them
I am so lost
and defeated by the vastness of it all
And right now
the only thing
I know
I'm sure about
is you.

Although no longer
entangled
we will always be entwined
Not only through the things
we are obliged
but something unmarred
something subtle
something deeper
Two souls on the same plane
still moving across
undaunted by hurt
and hardship
and loss

-Not gone
Not apart
Not broken
Only changed-

Although these things
have been set in motion
and we may move
In different ways
To different rhythms
And time may find us
In different places
We will always be
something special
and something graceful

-Never gone
Never apart
Never broken
Only changed -

My dearest friend
Although it is time
For things to change
we will always have
those things
no one can take
or fully understand
We will always
be timeless
And always
on each other's side

-It is all only change-

This bitter endgame theory
is the remnant of us
tightly clutched in a loose collection
of dulled hidden blades I kept in
empty sugar pill bottles
for moments such as these
My shallow breath slowing
showing
nothing left but hesitation marks manifesto readings
to stave off never lasting mob stompers
losing control of thought criminal empires
All is lost with wounds swabbed in hopes of growing cultures
not inundated by murderland vultures
cackling that doomsday clock apocalyptic-talk
as they pick apart failed crop circles
The past is in the past but remains so tense
as you stand revolted by wretched plans
while wrenching cold calculating razors from my hand
because being allowed to touch seemed so unattainable to me
in the first place
and now that you're gone
I
am
so
scar struck.