an·te·ced·ent

     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
                                        of another.

                                   And I concluded: it always comes to this.

               pre·vail·ing

     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.

               con·tin·gent

               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.

               syn·chro·nous

     And maybe it all meant something.

          And maybe it still does.