It's like this:
I'm supposed to love you,
To cherish you,
To keep you in my heart through
All that is bad
And all that is unfathomable alone.

But where are you?
What has happened to you?
I see you. I can touch you,
Smell you, hear you
But I can't feel you.
You are gone.

When you come back
I will be here
With open arms
And open eyes.
But I can't chase you.
Not anymore.

I'm waiting for father to thank me
I did what he asked.
I'm waiting for him to tell me
what a good job I've done
what a good boy I am.

I'm waiting for father to sweep down
with open arms
and scoop me from my feet.
To laugh with me as he picks me up
high above his head.

I'm waiting for father to look at me
with the same eyes that he has
for the glass in his hand
and the amber liquid
that fills the hollowness of it's invisible walls.

The paradox of timelessness and love
which haunts us with a sense of urgency.

It beats with more viscosity than my blood.
It fills my lungs more than oxygen ever could.

Watch
me
as
I
face
my
demons.

Watch me turn, pivoting on my heels, to stare down the poisonous nature of my own mind.

****
me
if
I
go
too
far.

Crazed, a man can only bear what he is meant to bear.

Love
me
when
I
return.

Victoriously, or not at all.

Watching hands slide to hold
Only fingertips, lingering
Until finally they separate
Leaving owner and owner
Alone and alone

The wolves come at night
To take
To take away from us

And so we hide
In the trees we are invisible
In the night we aren't alone

I keep having a dream
over and over again
of you, sitting cross-legged
at the table with me
in some dim-lit, dusty-shelf café
with a twenty dollar menu
and a cat that won't stop staring me down.

You don't sip your coffee
but you spin the styrofoam cup slowly around in circles.
Disappointed with me, clearly.
Some dim-witted, dusty-haired man
with a twenty-dollar haircut
asks, "do you need a refill?"

He's referring to the now-cold, still-full cup
you've been staring at
for the past twenty minutes.
"No thanks, this one's fine."
As if you've actually been
sipping it instead of staring me down.

An old man in the booth behind you
starts telling a story to a younger man
twenty years his junior
about how he met his wife
in a coffee shop all to similar to this.
Irony in a coffee shop.

He went on to tell
all about his wife.
Beautiful blonde hair, green eyes
the legs of a goddess
and the voice of an angel.
"The perfect woman," he said.

But you're clearly not listening
distracted by the conversation
that we're having
(in your head, that is).
I think I'm losing that battle...
Meanwhile, there's a cat that keeps staring me down.

I hadn't noticed until then
you had taken your ring off.
A pale band of skin
gave away what you were trying to hide.
As if to say
"Nice try, *****!"

My dream never ends.
I mean, I wake up
but the dream itself is never resolved.
I don't know if I want it to be.
I'd rather spend twenty dollars to watch some kittens dance
and pretend that everything is okay.