You care about only a few things.
The odd specific details in our
encounters with one another,
how you become so entranced
by the wind; how I'm sometimes insane.

Is my insanity worth the few moments
you spend happy with who I am?
Are the lapsing courses of impending
schizoaffective illness scary to only me?

It seems you're a different type of crazy.
Not a starving artist- not unlike one either
though. I wonder if it may be inside your head
as you watch me, watching you.

I'll break the poetic rambling, poetic romancing
and tie myself to the tree that is the wind flickering
across your hair, beveling your face in the morning
light as we walk, and you talk about your dreams.

Do you know anything about the nightly terror?
The slow and collapsing waves of the mind as
they reflect on horrid dilapidation, horrid existence?
I wonder as you wonder if I wonder too.

Oh! The saint has called upon the regal
battleground of Illinois to deliver me
a message of utmost sincerity and
inner-beauty. A quaint "I love you."

You ask me if I could ever be less
complicated, non complacent. And
you also ask me a million other things
I dare not answer, I would never answer.

You entertain the idea that inside my irreverence
there is some hidden truth or holy gospel undelivered
by your poetry books and your indie rock bands.
I can't see past the orange highlights in your hair.

How beautiful! What marvelous features on your
face, what exquisite traipsing lust! Sometimes
I disgust even myself with the utter health
of my persistent reeling comments on vanity.

And I suppose it seems quite blank and dim.
I mean to never have a single fear.
I see that you have become kind of slim;
the way you hurt yourself is what I leer.
Would you ever be kind enough to stop?
I don't think that you understand my plea.
You stand in the center of my dad's shop.
But I can see that you are just a flea.
A passing wave on my own separate sea.
I was writing a sonnet until you-
lost my train of thought by
cutting yourself. Can't you see?
Can't you see?

Nothing matters so why believe-
in someone who you'll barely see?
Maybe twice a week I'll entertain you.
Maybe twice a week a shaded hue
will fall to stop my clue-
less heart as it bursts.
I am cursed.
I am cursed.

So, I'll bear the weight as I watch the way the
red scar, jagged runs along your pale neck
as you undress, your v neck dress.

I'll see your perfect figure in every glass
and every reflected tabletop, my dear.
Chicago has killed you.

And every party-
every piece of sanity
is useless, hopeless.
As every man-
every other lover
is just as mindless.

I wish that-
with you I
could complete-
a thought-
maybe without
the stutter-

but with beauty
comes a sincere-
scarily closing
portion of my
chest.
A lapsing
wave as I-
proclaim
to never
breath again.