Two months, seven days; I wonder why I still count anymore
when the world has become an empty blur of bodies and mixed paint,
colors indiscernible, laid out before me,
urging me to go on and take a needle
and let seep from my fingertips his blood and energy.
I am tired of just relying on what once fueled me,
the electricity of life's purpose, my flames of desire.
My dying heart needs to be fed diesel gas, instead of
the kind of substance he has injected into me all these years.
It's accumulated inside of me and become a kind of poison,
making me move slower than I have ever moved before.
Before that, I had stomped on the flames with my own two feet
although I didn't know, and I guess if I had known, I wouldn't have.
And I'll tell you it seared my skin just as much as it did his--
I'm still recovering, still mending; but he's better, he didn't need to mend at all.
Those tiny flecks of orange and red embers were too little, so he left me;
it was like pouring ice water over what we had.