And I spoke to my walls, discovering that the only difference
between them and her was
a coat of paint and a pulse,
and often-- just the pulse.
And I solved my problems for under ten dollars, at corner stores:
I purchased lip chap, armbands, and press-on nails.
It never failed.
And I tried to not talk and listen,
but to discuss and hear,
but I felt the end was near.
And she was my Judas, as I was her Christ.
I righted her wrongs, she destroyed my rights.
Her betrayal was sealed with the kiss
And I concluded: it always comes to this.
And I stood on my porch in the pathetic drizzle,
stared out into the darkness and pretended to find solutions there.
I almost cry, but never do. I never seem to follow through.
And I have felt the presence of gods I do not believe in:
I have prayed to Them,
begged forgiveness for sins that do not feel wrong,
found temporary salvation in the grace of their names.
And I went to bars and requested songs that I knew would make me cry.
And I talked to pianists from behind tall drinks:
"Play me something sweet and slow,
sing it soft and sad and low."
Dark shapes melted through my mind--
people and things that I will never fully recall.
And I played Russian Roulette with one empty cartridge,
the greatest risk being that I may not die.
And I cried only when I was alone.
And the walls that I brought down were brought down for you.
The songs that I sang were written for you.
And I found that we were not written in the stars,
but I took my pen into my tongue and re-arranged the sky as I pleased.
I did it with ease.
And I questioned how I could give you up,
when by doing so, I would be losing your eyes,
your smile, your lips, your voice.
And I found that our bodies bent perfectly together,
that my mood was not affected by the weather.
We rendezvous at midnight and stay awake until dawn.
And I found that I do not crave Shakespearean romance.
If that's perfection, give me flaws. If that's a play, then give me pause.
And maybe it all meant something.
And maybe it still does.