Don't ever question,
      my heart; that beats only for you.
You write about heartbreak, always dejected,
    each word, each stanza, each tear, on tattered paper.

Just know,
    I can't erase love; for grief is human desire.
Nonetheless,
  I will pick you off the ground,
     and say "I love you"

_______

𝓓𝓸𝓷'𝓽, 𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮.
   𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭,
     𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯.

Like the trains,
  that always run late.
      I was late to love,
      I was late to happiness,
      But I was early to the desolate sea of loneliness that awaits us,
        as the train gets lost in the foggy gray hills of death,
             we all reach. . . you were early to that stop.
                   I am still late waiting for the station, for us to meet.

I am back from my psychodelia adventure,
amongst the cosmos, with solar winds
which carry me upon constellations engrained with your art.
- Gas, light and nebulae explosions-
I have touched the cosmos of my own insanity,
      and lived through its silence.
Now I lay awake,
  clinging to drugs, hoping to love . . .
like the one who loves from afar. . .

When did I detach myself from the current of reality,
eternally fused to the nothingness that awaits us?
To become a slave of dreams and machinations.

When did I become another heartbeat,
longing for fantasies of love,
only to find the anguish that comes from human desire.
Knowing that we are powerless to our fascinations.

How many days go by, as we long to be remembered?
For art, for name, for doing, for living
only to reach the same end of obscurity.

They call me a deconstructionist, a detester of life.
But are we not worthlessly tied to this current of life?
We are born with no concepts, no meaning, an echo of what is to come.
& that same echo escapes us in the end.

I see you in the stars,
by the shadows of my back.
   reflections in your image, holding on to hope.
     I look at my pores, impregnated by tears of sorrow.
       Of an ancient tune, of nurtured love that has yet to bloom.
          For until we meet again, dust is what you are.
            My body is your coffin, an instrument for you heartbeat.

I have written thousands of poems,
30,000 thousand words and counting.

A quilt of memories both mine and yours,
   quatrains and couplets amongst swaying palm trees.


I wrote about anger, I wrote about hate,
   I wrote about death, I wrote about love,
       I wrote about lust, I wrote about you.

I drew maps in the stars,
   and my words became waves of emotion plunging
     me ever deeper into insanity.

But the words yet left unwritten,
    can not be created or describe,
       each day l̶i̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶

This wave of emotions,
that has invaded with savory harmony of unbreathable anxiety.
Mornings to nights, nights faded. . .
sorrows well achieved and joys badly lived.
Be still my wounded heart,
as it pulls me in.