I used to be a good man.
Today, contrary evidence runs at the bottom
Of an ocean on fire,
Its name is neglect.
The book we made love to today
Came in the mail this January.
A favorite story in the making, left alone for seven days.
Only seven, before those words,
Which still burn my retinas like a furious sun,
Uplifted this gem from its lonely mire.
“Returned to sender.”
It left me smitten in two borrowed pages.
My tear ducts rejoiced, looking in through the window.
How I loved what I saw, with a fervor enkindling.
A marriage of nuance between fiction and truth-
Duality was the flower girl. Elegance was a donated dowry.
And I, an acquaintance at best,
Forgot to RSVP,
And tasted the door that was shut in my mouth,
Like wedding cake and ethanol.
For years I played pretend that the outside was better,
But my belligerent insides have gotten the better of me.
My breath reeks
Of the aftermath of an incendiary trauma,
Of a betrayed trust,
Of spilled heartblood.
When I close my eyes,
I see a time-lapse movie of a passion starving.
And when I open them,
I turn a game of peekaboo into a disappearing act.
My words are a kerosene-soaked plea.
Your gaze is a chemical extinguisher.
I’ve burned the past six weeks with empty charisma’s flint
I cannot hold fault for your silencing for time’s sake,
As I have direly wasted yours.
A foregone conclusion, penned in cobwebs.
There is one solitary space for this decomposing love to inhabit.
I’ll leave it on the Forum.