i talk about love with my eyes closed,
talk about it with my teeth clenched,
the truth slipping between the cracks of my teeth,
like your fingers through the spaces of my hands,
because I’ve been in love so many times,
I’m running out of hands to count on,
I’m running out of thread to sew the pieces back together,
because what has love ever done for anyone anyway,
I’ve been guilty of it’s crime too many times.
love:
capital punishment without the promise of a final date,
and believe me, I’ve been waiting for it.
I’m still serving time for the last time I tripped on someone’s eyes and landed on my dignity,
bruised up my knees,
still cry whenever I witness what spring does to willow trees,
every time the snow feels like her time is up,
and she sacrifices herself to the sun,
seeps into hell,
just so all of the roses can bloom once more.
but look at what love has done to me,
left me on the end of the line,
waiting for a voice that I know is never coming,
and the doctors keep telling me that my new heart is coming,
and they also said summer is coming,
yet I have been trapped in this eternal winter for what seems like years.
I’m not even sure there’s anything to replace,
I’m not sure I ever had one in the first place,
my ribcage swears of her presence,
but for all I know there’s a clock ticking against my chest
like the thunder against the sky,
counting down the minutes I have left
until my body makes one with the sky,
or the ground,
I don’t care anymore;
heaven or hell,
where ever my soul gravitates when this pain bids farewell,
I hope that when I'm there
love is nothing more than an urban legend,
a myth,
and maybe that’s all it is now,
because the first time I ever saw love she was laying on the bathroom floor,
her arms widespread like she wasn’t afraid to fly,
my father was in the other room making a commitment to the bible,
making a commitment to the bottle,
a commitment to anything that would temporarily make the bridge between life and death feel within arms reach,
and that’s what love does to people,
it makes you feel like heaven is real because you've touched it,
but when it ends,
and just like you and me;
it will end,
it transforms your bones into a playground for the devil,
I feel him running around most nights,
swinging around trying to get as close to heaven as he can,
except heaven is in my head,
and there are no angels which exist on its surface,
and you know what I can’t say I blame him,
or anyone who swallows too many pills just to feel a little closer to heaven.
who sips away at a bottle just to feel like they’re not the only one who’s empty inside.
and my heart feels for the snow,
every time winter leaves,
she just fades away,
like she was never there in the first place,
maybe the roses are the only ones who knew of the warmth beyond those thick layers of ice,
because she died for them,
and,
I hope they all knew of the fire lit behind the cold wall I built up,
after I got tired of people trying to blow it out,
and maybe I’m not resentful of love,
I’m resentful of the tarot cards god has pulled for me,
I’m resentful of her ending,
and her resurrection,
the heartache of those who are devoted to Christ,
I cannot imagine.
I let the snowflakes swirl around the rooms,
throughout my body,
warm myself on the small flame burning in my ribcage,
until i am no longer alone,
and the roses burst through winters flesh,
and introduce my knees to the pavement,
alike every other time,
I will sit and wait,
just to watch them die again,
and at least I know that cycle is still coming,
and maybe the hardest thing about falling in love
is not knowing when,
or how much time I have left with the roses.