his voice is like poetry
while I’m sleeping-

I cant make sense
of the information I’m
gleaning
in tidal waves
spawned by
the moon that is his mind.

the space is stuffy
and I’m
sweating,
tears for the idea
of a young man who never existed.

every new face is a pawn
in the facade
of a game I’ve spun together
over years of misfortune
and emotional torture.

I’m enraptured
by the subtleties of self
you capture in such
spirited convalescence.

In an effort of defense
I will plead the ignorance
of a meager age
and a shifty stage in life.

i am prone to strife
that entices me
late at night when
the dishes are piling and
ash is frosting my kitchen floor.

I’ll make it back to bed
when the sneaking wisps of daylight
come slithering
across
your uninhibited sprawl.

I really
should
stop
playing God.  
c.m.
8-19-14