Sep 2017
I could touch ground to the idealization that all love is impossible;
not the kindest touch of palms against the breastbone of my soul,
could heal this immaculate desire and terrible crushing feeling
of being alone. Not even the notion of dry lips against even dryer ones could form and mold back together the splintered pulsing place in my brain that still aches for you.
Dying at noon with a boiled shot glass of ***** seemed fitting.
The ever growing heated birth in the sky blinded out the grave-****** silver of clouds. I wanted to reach out my overdosed arms, push that fiery ball of hate and replace it with something much more of grace: The moon, the moon in all her calm and peaceful beauty.
But I was left with the devil, it seemed, the devil and the still fixated image of your smiling face behind my clinched shut eyelids.
I prayed for a redeeming act of elegant forgiveness. If not from you, than at least from the one we both tried so hard not to believe in, the one we so desperately tried to tie a knot around and leave slaved to the broken fence out back.
God: he seemed too barbaric and cruel to even think of, but he still, lie there, in the back of our minds, keeping some part of us both safe and alive and breathing.
The ash of you is kept in a jar that doesn't speak or move or try to resurrect itself back into the loving boy that had once possessed it. And being alone here, trembling numbly back and forth on this creaking rocking chair, almost seemed like a thing of torture. You were uncountable miles away from me and I was sewn in frugally to this wooden piece of rotting slab wishing more than ever I was a ghost.
A ghost that haunted the deserted halls where you might be.
The sky should be bathed in black nothingness, instead, it washes my skin with unholy punches of toasted warmth.
I close my choking, pleading mouth shut and let the warm salt of my body dissolve in hail like figures down my face.
Accepting your loss was more an impossible act than finding out how love, the most ferocious, corrupt perception of life, could still somehow exist, out there, in the world full of tremendous hurting.
not the kindest touch of palms against the breastbone of my soul,
could heal this immaculate desire and terrible crushing feeling
of being alone. Not even the notion of dry lips against even dryer ones could form and mold back together the splintered pulsing place in my brain that still aches for you.
Dying at noon with a boiled shot glass of ***** seemed fitting.
The ever growing heated birth in the sky blinded out the grave-****** silver of clouds. I wanted to reach out my overdosed arms, push that fiery ball of hate and replace it with something much more of grace: The moon, the moon in all her calm and peaceful beauty.
But I was left with the devil, it seemed, the devil and the still fixated image of your smiling face behind my clinched shut eyelids.
I prayed for a redeeming act of elegant forgiveness. If not from you, than at least from the one we both tried so hard not to believe in, the one we so desperately tried to tie a knot around and leave slaved to the broken fence out back.
God: he seemed too barbaric and cruel to even think of, but he still, lie there, in the back of our minds, keeping some part of us both safe and alive and breathing.
The ash of you is kept in a jar that doesn't speak or move or try to resurrect itself back into the loving boy that had once possessed it. And being alone here, trembling numbly back and forth on this creaking rocking chair, almost seemed like a thing of torture. You were uncountable miles away from me and I was sewn in frugally to this wooden piece of rotting slab wishing more than ever I was a ghost.
A ghost that haunted the deserted halls where you might be.
The sky should be bathed in black nothingness, instead, it washes my skin with unholy punches of toasted warmth.
I close my choking, pleading mouth shut and let the warm salt of my body dissolve in hail like figures down my face.
Accepting your loss was more an impossible act than finding out how love, the most ferocious, corrupt perception of life, could still somehow exist, out there, in the world full of tremendous hurting.
to charlie, the boy who placed his heart in my palm with false amounts of trust. I hope a piece of you is still existent in the air I breathe, so I could have a part of you in me.
