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I feel the meat of myself, the fleshy bits of personality
Setting with purchase once again to the skeleton foundation
Left bare for a time. A great, terrific wave of life, the amalgamation of
Grief and loss and love and duty and exhaustion that
Time blended together all at once and rushed toward
That current of fragile self. That crashing, toiling weight tearing
All but the sturidiest pieces of who I thought myself to be,
Washing them to their sedimentary settlement Bygone.

Now a hungry, rattling, airy thing I am, shouts and drools to be fed.
A present of consumption is at hand, and who I am but a servant
To the needs of me? The bones need meat to feel whole,
Fill holes, and it matters not from what source that marrow
Drinks, and chews, and gouges. A season of fat shall come,
And bones sing to the insulation and warmth it will bring.
Let me be whole again, and the new me brace for life's next wave.
I have a barren emptiness inside desperate and thrashing for the intense desire filled by another.
A thirst quenched with a fleeting eclipse and as infrequently found to satisfy.
To feel the outline of the depression you instilled as you squeezed the void between us into an almost something.
Then satisfied with the relief of a potential connection, decompressed your you from any meaningful we.
Whether you know it or not, you murdered
Me. Or at least a version of me.
The me who flew off into those potentials
And maybe's and what if's
As if the only way forward was up.
He sought the greener pastures
Littered with your name and played
The game of same-nes(s)-cessary
Action only to find an oblivion
Of ambiguity.
A historian who retells humanity's triumphs and downfalls, only to their journal every night.

A preacher set on converting the masses, barracading the doors of the chapel from the inside.

A marine biologist on a mountaintop, speaking of the things of the ocean to the sky.

Passion and desire meeting the fruitless nature of distance and doing nothing to close it.

So too is your heart, searching for affection and adoration yet hidden from even your own eyes.
Don't reach for me from the other side of the canyon.
At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.

The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.

Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.

Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are

Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.
Sometimes even the simplest things can sometimes a sense of uneasy dread
I swear I just heard the trees breathe, a deep contented sigh. Harmonious to the one echoed in my soul.

Breathe in, Sway out.

Breathe in, Sway out.

Let the breeze move through your mirrored branches.
A movement dedicated to life beyond your center.
A late night observation in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everything.
I weirdly - no, wantonly - want to kiss you the next time

Your blue-gray eyes besiege my focus and I resign

My sight - no, soul - to your vision and spread your word

As the bearded and fattened prophet of these feelings deferred.
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