the seconds chisel the ice;
the thaw, it has begun.
as old woes come to die,
new paths are clear in view,
if distant and unwanted.

return to past hallucinations,
don't trust your withering eye,
and always have in mind
the sad contempt you held
for him. (but who am i?)

old world across the ocean,
torment me with vivid lies.
i ask for salvation
and all i get is you,
ether, slipping between my trembling fingers.

she had an accident
but all i can do is drink,
until the scars and bruises
dissolve and melt into
the atlantic, or at least the bath water.

i read because i must,
and listen to the beats
that others love to death
but i just want
to get laid (but what do i know?)

i fear that god has made me so
no living soul will comprehend
that i don't mean harm
when i do the things
that hurt the most.

dread and happiness comingle,
like awkward exes at a party,
their hands touch at the punch bowl,
but they were never really
in love to start.

the path of wisdom dwells beneath
the open sewers of the street
and far above the ancient pylons
of a lonely gravity.

the sea of roses flows between
an old forgotten shattered dream
and young, immortal gods of new,
creating truth, or so it seems.

the strings that bind us to this place;
they are the same that make her face,
the beauty and the horror, truth,
beseech the strings to truth, erase.

this parade of fiction shall cease
only when the gods, with ease,
decide to shatter dreams once more:
how beautifully impossible this love is.

the story of the year was nothing but an escapist fantasy.
she took it, she read it, and she understood it as such,
yet she did not point it out so as to make it less real.
across an expanse of water and an equally daunting stretch of time,
she assumed my unjustified and unjustifiable love would dwindle,
would crumble, would fade, and would die.

and in fact, her plan is working.
every second, like a cancer,
the love that courses through my brain is being transformed.
through sheer pain and disillusionment,
whether she likes it, whether she knows it,
whether she wants it or not,
the waves of infinite love,
the ones that used to lap at her feet when she,
alone and too beautiful,
would sunbathe on the shore of my ocean,
they are turning toxic.

something has gone wrong.
like a tormented planet, choked of all good, deprived of love,
my wrath tempts my restraint.
will the hot and angry sun scorch the lush rainforests of affection and goodwill?
will the bitter waters flood the plains of balance and reason?
will my mind,
whether in retribution or in self-defence,
turn to thoughts of cosmic revenge?

but then,
with a flash,
the drugs kick in.
or are they wearing off?
and i realize that it's all for what?
and i remember what i want.
and i smile.
it's a simple wish, really,
but it's proven elusive, at best,
at worst, beautifully, passionately,
revoltingly unattainable.
i hope it stops.

but will it ever begin?

i'm in a daze,
with all things simultaneously happening,
and not,
and, as my chest exhales its harsh condition,
we both know it's up to me,
no more.

the ball in her court,
her proverbial time is anything but up;
it pains me so sweetly to know,
that i, the weak romantic,
would wait for ages,
or at least until the age was up,
and i, with renewed vigor,
sought a new home for my needy lips.

the wall of flesh and bone stands upright,
blocking the way which,
in all natural beauty,
our hands would clasp and fuse,
into a glorious pile of flesh,
a holy collection of bones,
an infinite matrix of perfectly matching atoms.

as i sit here,
desperate for her warm gaze and her fleeting touch,
instead i settle for cold words on pages,
written about people who have,
for all intents and purposes,
figured out the complex network,
of loves and lusts and loves,
or, at the very least, have shut their urges,
down,

down, we descend,
will she follow me into this?
because, despite the face of stone,
i am nothing but straw, aflame,
held fast by water-weary clay,
a David of sorts, a Thinker,
a monument to humanity,
but most of all, to its flaws.

she don't think straight,
he can't see straight,
i don't think he...
i don't think i...
can do it on my own.