I grabbed you but you still ran away from me.

Right now,
It seems
our lives
Are comprised
Of few "hellos"
And short "Goodbyes"

"Byes" aren't good
I cannot stand them
The bright hello
Becomes so dim

But...

I'd rather say bye
A thousand times
If it meant
Your arms
Could hold me more.

I stumbled upon the shadow
Of your last words
They were black
Sad
And free

I watched them flutter
In the space of sky
That was once above you
Now beside you
Like the butterflies
You would catch
In a jar

The words
The last ones
To leave your lips
Were haunted
By the clear cage
They were about to enter
They were as loud as a scream
And as quiet as silence

I watched them
Heard them
Kissed them
In my calloused palms
And wished
I was still yours
Forever

My entire life
Has been
dedicated
To creating
A web of lies
Stronger than
Any wall
The hurt
Dare to build

Nobody
knows
Me
Not even
My blood
Those whom
I call friends
I've hurt without
Them even
knowing
There is no
Secret lover
Who I've confessed
My sins
There is no
Stranger I once
Found redemption
In
And there is no story
Out there in the world
That it's truly mine

Not even these
Poems
I wrote to lazily
To make rhyme

These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.

Loving*
                               is
                                                                ­  too
                                 *mainstream
                but
                                ­                being
                                                                ­                  loved
                                                               back
                                                is
                                                                ­                     not.