i like to imagine you can't feel the way i
can; you are sculpted from ashes and
ice, you smile and you laugh and you
melt when someone touches you in the
right way, but still, you can't fall in love,
not really. you have kept your heart
clutched tight in your own fist, vena
amoris unlaced and fluttering in the wind
like a kite string.

[anybody could make you fly in the right
wind, but the trick is to keep you high
without letting the tether slip through his
fingers.]

it would be easier for me if you really were
so cold, if you were a simply a monster
masquerading as a man. but i know
that the only person here who isn't quite
what they seem to be is me; i'm the one
who pretends that if you came back to me,
i would twist up my lips and pull back my
hands and leave you crawling in the street.

[but i know, and you know, that if you even
turn your head to look at me, i am yours all
over again.]

there is this creature inside of me, malignant
and scavenging for any memory, for the
sound of your name. i think of you and it lifts
its head, salivating, i wish you were here and
it gnaws on my bones until i am weak and
stumbling. i am not sure if it is punishing me
or living off of me, if it is an avenging angel
or a parasite, but i think you both have
something in common.

[i am heartsick and trembling, swaying when i
try to stand, and neither one of you would
bat an eye if i didn't make it. for you, it would
be the same as any other day; for it, well,
there are plenty of others with whom it could
roost.]