the more we reach
the less we know
our fear is deep
from the seeds we sow.

to have is to hold
to leap is to gain
reach out your arms
while we dance in the rain.

a common deception
a leaf that blows free
the man on the moon
watches all he can see.

look out for yourself
as you float on the breeze
drifting and searching
as the tide of the seas.

it was a slender thread
that connected you to me

not much of a lifeline
no matter how you look at it

a wish stacked on a dream

stacked on a hope

teetering on destiny

it sparkled slightly
in the sun
-this thread-

but it is gone now
and maybe you are homeless

and dis-connected

the world seems gray-er
and
less suited to poets

Yes. I wielded the knife.

Coated with my word poison, I plunged it into your soul and the dagger spread like cancer through you, I could see it metastasizing every time you tilted your head to let your hair cover your face.

If I could take that blade and plunge it into my own heart now, I would before my next beat.

I would take back the cancer and smile as the tumors fought for residency inside of me, if I knew that you would be in remission from my cruelty.

Sometimes it takes three months for the recoil of punches thrown to take its effect. When it does, laying on your basement couch, trawling through an online poetry forum, your knuckles will fracture and your finger bones will cleave in two like firewood.

I doused you with the lighter fluid I spit and set you ablaze with the words I wrote. I watched your tears turn to ash.

And then I lit another match.

I turned my back as you smoldered, now your anger fed the flames I sparked.

Now my bones are brittle and dry, my marrow now tinder for you to set aflame.

Burn me with the hellfire I put you through, I need this self-assigned penance, and you deserve to watch me burn.

Take the charcoal that remains and draw yourself in perfect mirrors, sketch out the picture of yourself that I should have showed for you.

I once promised you that I would, remember?

I am so sorry.

I stood there, the whole time, with a water bucket in my hand.

I had your reflection, and I spilled it on the floor.

Set me on fire, let the crackling of my bones beneath the weight of the flame be the lullaby as you sleep.

Ten thousand apologies are nowhere near enough.

You have copied and pasted yourself into my memory without my
conscious authorization. My data storage could surpass that of a
super computers, a near infinite amount of space for whatever I
want saved, except you have rewritten my libraries upon libraries
of me with your animation; as if I now cannot run without you
constantly there. When I try to open the program of my heart it’s
blocked by the virus you lured me with. I used to trouble shoot in
circles wasting gigaseconds at a time trying to find ways of deleting
you out of my hardware. I’m constantly stuck in a loop of trial and
error trying to decode and compute the internal damage you’ve
done in efforts to restore my old programming. I tried to find
solutions with other users but you act as my administrator,
dictating what I have access to. The folder named, “My History”
has been renamed to “Our History” with every face you’ve made,
every word you’ve said, and every instance we’ve plugged into each
other being cached for immediate viewing making it all
too easy to only think of you; I cannot upload a single thought
without you in it.  I have grown sick, going from constant states
of freezing to overheating since the day you crashed me. This is
not something I can just sleep off. This is not something I can
just shutdown everything for.

I cannot edit you.

I cannot erase you.

I cannot wipe myself clean of you.

                                                           ­                 I have been overrun by you.
                                                                ­           And the truth is, I have been
                                                            ­               searching for exactly this
                                                                           since the day I was built.

A trowel and an infinite supply of spackle. Leave me to work, friends. I perceive your cracks, everyone, every one. Canyons, hairline crevices, they trace your backs like rain down windowsills. I've never quite been able to predict where the fissure will turn.

A trowel and an infinite supply of patience. Leave me to my duty, friends. Let me fill in your fractures, I can saturate them to their basin with reparations, reconciliations. I will breathe forgiveness, companionship, love, whatever you need onto my mendings, they will harden. Paint over them what shades you will, I’ll hold your hand as you hold the brush.

A trowel and an infinite supply of compassion. Leave me to my compulsion, friends. Maintain my repairs, I beg of you. You let them become brittle and they flake off of your faces like paper Mache masks. You, let the paint fade. Your work, our work, to fix the fissures, it’s crumbling through your fingers, outstretched, dumbfounded you stare. Pick up the trowel and spackle your own canyons. Spread the fleeting putty across your faces till your eyes cry dust when you blink.

Oh look, upon your left eyelid. A fracture. A trowel. Leave me to my love, friends.