i cannot blame you entirely,
for it was i who knelt before the guillotine,
and it was me who shrouded my shameful head with a burlap sac

it feels compressed, wet
like a thick shroud of damp air,
is pushing me down.
the reflective mirage of steaming pavement
beckons me towards its own glass,
towards its own personal parallel existence.
it wants me to be for a short time.
with my bloodied fists i beat, beg, whimper,
but i cannot cross the threshold;
but before the cool, thin air of nightfall comes,
i will claw at the surface of this mirror,
until my fingers are no more.

i'm glad i shared the last few moments of
stinging, gasping for breath, and teary eyes,
although confused, it made sense later.
i like to think that i took some of that pain,
and sense of death,
but i came back from it, and you didn't.
and i hope that the throb and the short period of agony
that i also undertook,
took away from your own,
and made your exit just a little more peaceful than it would have been,
had some of it not diverged to my own chest.

again succumbing to the tenderness of similarity and shallow bonding; again to capitulate to the guise of a new affection,
a new exhilaration,
a new death knell.

encompassed, encased
in handguns,
harsh ropes.

the silence, the peace of mind they've longed for.

the absolute devastation, desolation,
i never wanted to face.

plagued with deep seated,
simultaneosly unfounded,
some times nonexistent
but intense,
overbearing,-whelming,
remorse? regret?
                                                              maybe some times.

the stale taste of beer on my breath is too familiar as my mind wanders to why i drank in the first place.

let me sleep.