I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.

waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!

When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters

When my DnD group broke up

I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers

Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.

Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.

When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.

In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest

I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

hourglass laid on her naked abdomen
red pigment passionflesh
beheld by her own touch

I adore the way the
Presence of a toddler; little

Diaper steps from something to
Something else

Softens the eyes of grandmothers
Smiling between themselves

Remembering their grown
Children

As not.
Paper-skin hands

Veins of deepest ancient blue
Holding love so old

For small things.
New things.

Fresh, little human being
Royalty in our eyes.

Commanding
Without knowing.

Heart itself on two
Tiny legs.

My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

The way your tongue inevetably
Returns to the sharp edges of a
Chipped tooth

Despite your efforts
To keep it from cutting itself on
Something sharp, yours and

Broken.

Script scratched on the sinews of my soul
Lips echo with sharp words,
I slipped away where nobody would know.
I cried in the bathroom.
I didn't want to hurt anyone.
I didn't want too be feared,
Or hated.
Face forced into a ticking ,twitching smile
Fake gestures ,stiff posture, a throat full of bile.
Linguistic cuts,covered over with syllabic stitches,
Words have cut,and words have healed him.