There are blurry holes in the words that I am reading, just like you.
An image with these holes that doesn't make sense.
I don't understand why I still think of you in this way.
It's not much thinking, maybe more wondering.
I wonder and wander up a swirling spiral staircase that sways and creeps beneath my feet.
I reach the corner of the empty old room.
My nervous quivering fingers feel the pin on the dusty grenade.
The one that lies in the highest corner of my mind.
So simple would it be to pull it
but once it is out,
it could never be put back in.
It wouldn't be a grenade any longer.
Would there be an aftermath following the explosion of every emotion
running wild in my brain?
Or would the corner be empty, waiting, to be filled with something new?
A flower could grow from the rubble,
that's the positive thing to say.
It would most likely be worse than a grenade.
An atomic bomb built for pain.
But if you just told me the reason why, you could get out of my head.
You are a body with a grenade attached at the neck
in place of your head.
A surreal image, of course I would pick that.
Of course, that's what you would tell me.
I wouldn't say a word.
Just let my hands touch the weapon,
feel the cold metal of the pin in my palm.
It could be so quick to pull.
So tempting.
Then the reason comes in
and tells me it's best to
let you sit and collect dust.
Enough little gray particles to cover your entirety.
So that I will forget you.
There will always be a time when I'm vulnerable.
I will dust you off a bit to see what you are.
The thoughts will flood back quickly My hand will reach for the split second mass destruction.
Reason will grab my hand
I will crumble into him again.
