Long live the life of unread books,
the life of collections and trinkets.
Perpendicular to how it should've been.
Parallel with everyone's honest expectations.

Forever glean nothing, but appear learned.
Forever clean, something is clearly earned
by this claim so staked in naked dirt,
dirt comprised of crumbled aspirations
and so many pettily wasted tomorrows.

So,
so many.

Men that won't eat *****
are just ******* in disguise.

I keep biding my time
and biting my tongue.

When is it enough?
How long do I wait to say it?

The temperature is turned too hot, but,
it feels good for now.
I lean my face into the falling water
and let it just douse my entire world.
I start soaping myself up and,
with a subtle pang of regret,
I wash her scent from my beard.

I hear the door click open.
I smile before she pulls the curtain aside,
she's naked and climbing in with me.
I smile and pull her in, pressing myself
up against her and kissing her cheek, her neck.
I smile with the memories of how
my beard picked up her scent last night.
The brief pang of regret from earlier
is gone as I imagine doing it all over again.
I smile as our foreheads press together
and our soapy bodies slip against each other.

I smile.
She smiles back.

I wash her back.
She washes mine.

There's a tear there.
They tore it.
Those *******.

Their tears tare,
and weigh out
to a zero sum.

Don't weep for them,
don't let the sutures heal.
Howl with the gale winds
and paint your scars with
every color of the sunset.
Squeeze tightly upon
any semblance of
hope that lies
within grasp.

Feel your knuckles crack,
and grin a bitter grin.

Breathe fire.


It all has yet to truly begin.