Pillowcases
When the moon crochets a pattern so subtle that I think I can hear it;
This is fluid feeling; this is a force I cannot replicate.
A calm silence in the silence- I can feel it.
You’re in love and you're alive and despite every heart-shocking, benevolent
crucifixion you hold on the dead cross of a body you obtain, you are breathing.
This isn’t life, this is barely hell.
We swore off religion lifetimes ago, this is just another hotel room.
You don’t miss a bed bug infested sofa, sheer tastes like gold against your skin.
You are hugging a silk pillowcase and I might just murder you with it.
Might just suffocate the ever-loving, charismatic, life-giving, illumination machine
that lines your insides, I might just stab you deep and call it sacrifice.
Don’t know why I think about it- I’d never come close.
Not on purpose, not like this-
Comfortable, crucial, alone in a lavender air pocket.
I might just do it when I’m blindly intoxicated
and possessed by the mere vision that contains me.
I might just rip the band aid-no preparation, Just throw the regret out of a
one way bus ticket and into the nearest pothole.
The car stops short and we’re awake again.
Frozen at a green light, am I part engine or am I just the damn response?
I am the tallest man on Earth who isn’t a man and doesn’t belong here-
Here being relative, Man being the half of me I hope to be when
you need someone to buy you flowers or hold you in the rain.
Woman I love, To see a woman in the mirror- I do not feel I deserve.
An idealistic hypocrite who thinks herself inevitable, I am.
I pull the covers over my head, pretending this quilt is a tapestry .
I pretend your words are a device and I am on life support, blood staining my
tapered hospital gown as I am miserable with stale breath,
begging you to pull the plug.
I will call it a medical device.
I will not call it love.
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