Are we a couple?
No.
Do we act like one?
Yes.
Does it hurt?
That depends on which one of us you ask.

I am nothing but a pack of cards.
No, not even.
Perhaps I am the Jack of Spades.
I'm missing the hearts.

I worry about the future,
where I ought to go,
who I ought to be.
It doesn't much matter which way I walk
so long as I get somewhere.
Any road can take me there.

We can't go back to yesterday because we were different people then.

Every piece of prose or poetry
is an act of autopsy,
a surgeon's knife
exploring the heart of all things.

I'm a compulsive liar.
It started as a defense mechanism,
a shield to defend against social stigma,
but now I just do it for sport.
It's an act of aggression.
It gives me false potency.

Sometimes
I begin to lose track
of the truths and the fictions.

The film plays through a cigarette haze,
spliced souls flicker on the silver screen,
noir shapes moving through the mist,
dark shadows and beating hearts,

soon the story starts to unfurl,
plots thicken through startled eyes,
rehearsed actions and missing words,
electrification through a Gothic grin,

tears fall on the words of a script
undulations of what we once were,
the movie closes to a final score
torn manifestos as the credits roll.
                    
                       Finis

I'll show you terror in a handful of dust.
The harder you grasp the faster it flows.
I cannot contain the violence of my lust.
My mind's last spasm in death throes.