For the love of my life—

Glassy-eyed, I drove. Everything was stagnant. Everything was static. Everything was molding and melting—deteriorating – falling from my needy grasp and hungry heart. I drove. I tucked my past in a small chasm beneath my feet and stomped the earth on top of it to make sure it was secure. The air was bitter that night. The flakes of snow were melting on the warm streetlights and the sidewalks glistened – this simple image hugged my body with an unfamiliar comfort; a comfort that drew my tepid, lifeless body towards you. I did not know you but I enveloped a tiny morsel of trust in the palm of my hand and took it with me. I inhaled deeply. I drove to you.

So bizarre lately. So odd. So unusual. And all things have a foggy, dreamlike haze that looms. It comes. It ceases. Breathing is hard and does not seem to happen automatically. I notice that I am aware of it and sometimes I try to mimic someone else’s breathing patterns. I find myself panting. Your rhythm is not mine. Your design, your composition, your delineation is not mine. I know. Autonomic functions do not feel so self-regulating. My epidermis, your epiglottis. I follow you into the brine but it feels like smaze. I follow you into the effluvium but it feels like saline. I’m baffled. I’m oriented. I’m evened, benumbed, and humble.

Resting in the hollows of his throat,
vibrating words traveling upward –
quicker and more deliberate,
climbing expeditiously out of his alluring lips,
being deeply entrenched into the folds of my cerebral cortex.

A perpetual static.
A mildewing, suppurating apple.
Crisp perfection with a poisonous outer shell.
Sweetness enclosed in a silky red veneer.

Ripe with anticipation,
I want to decorticate the waxy epicarp.
I want to discover what is inside.
I want this time to be different.

I am bombarded by what I already know.
I am trampled by lines I have already heard.
This scene has already been witnessed.

A deeply impressed indentation of a body on my mattress,
the warmth still resonate from the sheets.
His words still linger and hover with the air molecules.
His lines are a refurbished rendition of the previous entity.
They make every day seem stagnant,
and every one of my former and future lovers seem dull.

Crawling through a narrow tunnel to escape,
but reality extends its inviting eyelashes outward and flirts with me –
beckoning for me to become one of its conformists,
enticing me to ride the plain train;
to replace my individuality for something common.

These sheep are not just followers, they are far more atrocious.
Peel back the synthetic flesh, and they are robots.
Their internal machines tick like false hearts.
Frightened, I want to glue the ripped tissues back into place
Merely to diminish the bloodcurdling actualization I have witnessed.
They feed me a concoction of fallacious speeches.

Once contaminated by their sonnets,
I probe for an escape to cleanse my ulcerating thoughts;
A place to rejuvenate and allay all of my musing.
I come across a cave and make my way inside.

I bump directly into Robert Smith.
He had been hiding here all along.
The lines in his face crack with age,
and his make-up glides down those trenches.

His benign smile revealed the truth I had been seeking –
That every day is not simply a reincarnation of itself,
And there is a large abundance of individuality.
He sings various lines of A Strange Day
over and over until my eardrums pop.

beguiled inside a tiny box — tightly entwined with a vast abundance of shredded lace and silver filigree. i swathe this delicately around a coagulated, obsolete limb. tiny snowflakes dwindle further and further down until they are well acquainted with the warmth of your tissues. they melt with ease on your ailing, ethereal flesh. my brittle hands,composed of permafrost and porous diamonds, are capable of holding these minuscule molecules up to the phosphorescent light so that we can become familiar with all of their diverse chasms and divergent eyelets. curious, we trudge deeper into an abyss so powerful that the zeal engulfs our mere existence. “i am not a real being and reality is not an annexation.” your lips purse after this and i languidly contract and wrinkle into a mere icy minim; a modicum that you fortuitously inhale with sudden ease and dismal regret. “where have you gone?” i hear this while i evanesce in your throat. swallowed, i travel into your stomach. pregnant with surmise and conjecture, i meekly wait to be reborn.