I’m on you now.

You are ******* with me now.
Let’s see who you are.
Watch your back, *****.

Call me.
Don't be afraid, you *******.
Stand up.

If you don't call, you're just afraid.
I already know where you live, I'm on you.
You might as well call me.

You will see me.
I promise.
Bro.

I was going to write you an epic poem.
A soliloquy of vibrant, passionate, verbiage.
It was going to woo you off your feet.
Make you float like a falling feather in a light breeze...
indeterminately hovering in the golden light.

I was going to present my epoch to you with gilded wings and valiant trumpeting ostriches, on satin rugs in a grand hall.
Amidst a gathering of your closest friends.
I was going to lay bare my love for you like a plucked flower, opening to greet the sun before it's last gasp. Naked. Unafraid.

But then I remembered...
That for the next 42 minutes it was Happy Hour on Call of Duty Modern Warfare. And if I was smart - I would double down and activate my 2X weapon token...and rack up some serious XP.

So I left the comfort of the soft space our love occupies
And the dreamy pillowy sinews of our collective mind's eye...
And I rained a blood fury down on those dumb ******* like no one has ever done in a multiplayer first-person shooter, ever.
Laughing the entire time.... composing this epic poem for you... while shooting virtual people in the head with my rocket launcher.

Thus, is my true call of duty.

i have folded the night…
      deeply
           …into a
                         [box],
                                             on a shelf
                                      high
              an­d...placed it

                   
the quiet violence of MISSalignMENT        
surrounds                                          me. 

the moon (((hums))) in the window…
distant and so cold
                  a dim glow,
no judgment
                    tonight,
                            Instead i fold myself small,
                            a hand withdrawn>>>>>>>>>> from flame.

“you are always reaching”, she says
a city flickering beyond my hands,
a radio signal swallowed in the hills.
i am so tired…
not of you.
of the weight of it, the loss,
the map unraveling…too many uncertain roads.

                                                 i am StRuGgLiNg to be a quiet thing,
a …shoreline… where you breathe,
To NOT be another voice DEMANDING.
“i will not ask for fire tonight.” i profess…
                                                                ­  “i will not ask for warmth.”

“but i will come to you still”, she sings
hands empty, heart full of ghosts.
and if i do not touch you like before…
it is not because i do not want to.
it is because i am learning
how to stay.

                           i am a door left_ open…
  not sure if i want you to step _through
or if i should [close it] _myself.
i stand in the [frame], ~wind~ against my r i b s,
………………………………………………………waiting for a language
                                                                ­                     i dare not speak,
an answer that is never coming.

“my hands are full of unfinished things!”, she cries
(my) love should not feel like gravity,
but sometimes even light is…heavy.
i do not know how to say…
“wait for me!”, (but do not wait for me).

"the candle will wait” i, sigh
                                                   "the stars will not rush us."


tonight we will be two …distant… …bodies…

beneath one           …quiet… …sky…

next to one            …RAGING… …sea…

tomorrow…


…tomorrow we will see.

If it's what you say, I love it,
especially later in the summer.
Bigly, a real nothing burger.
Alternative facts make the best fake news.
I hope you can see past this.
Tremendous. So big.

I moved on her like a *****.
But I couldn’t get there.
Low I.Q. bleeding badly from a face-lift.
I thought it would be easier.
Everybody is going to be taken care of.

We just got back from the Middle East.
We just got back from Saudi Arabia.
Land of covfefe.
I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody,
and I wouldn’t lose voters.
If it's what you say, I love it,
especially later in the summer.
Treason.

I just replaced you, easily, with an email and a phone call, again.
Another role you used to play, reassigned effortlessly.

Remember six months ago when you revealed your wretched, petty, disgusting self to me? Finally? Completely?
You creepily stalked my new lover and cherry-picked her beautiful innocent profile for tidbits and fed them back to me in your ugly dysphoric state?

I cut your putrid infected vampiric body off me.
I had grown so tired of your ashtray breath and Ziploc chest.
Your pill-popping weezyness was so tired and petty.

I am free of you forever.
Go be ugly somewhere else.