She brings me morning coffee and tissues
(Tissues, ostensibly a coaster)
for she knowing.

Poetry,
I am writing,
needing then,
to wipe up
the spilling
tears.


PostScript:
Which of the mysteries within this poem
need answers?
All or None.

Red is the color of love

It's the roses
he gave you for your birthday.
It's the color your face turns
when he holds your hand.
It's the lipstick
you left on his cheek.

It's the red velvet cake
on your wedding day
and the bow
you put in your baby girl's hair.
It's the her first bicycle
and her first car.

Now, It's the roses
he buys her for her birthday.
It's the color her face turns
when he holds her hand.
It's the color your face turns
as the tears stream down your face
on your baby girl's wedding day.

It's her turn to be Red

There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy

What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching ******* and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ******* seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such  scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly

Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than ******-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries

Welded together, we are by now. Or am I imagining?
The only key that fits my locked doors, my haunted mansion.
Exorcise these demons, love. Purify me.
Tree branches scape my windows and my floorboards groan.
Growing younger with age; you own the sands of time;
The exact crushed stone that took my life away in the first place.

I've written an epic for you, a story of things that we could see together.
Turned out lights and glimmering stars on our chandelier.
Diamonds glowing in your eyes and a fire burning in mine.
Step back and fall into nothing, but somehow something.
Birds are singing for us, love. Wherever their nests lie, we shall too,
Collapse into a thunder storm and drown out their song with our own.

Strong and fast- moving; we are no longer human.
We are a current, swift and caressing the life we have lead.
We wash ashore with the push and pull of your tides, steam
Licking us as my fire burns. The sweet moss fill our lungs
As we crush it beneath us. The soft bed of green
Replacing the squeaks that we have heard many times before.

And I say your name. Whisper and moan. Almost.