I cut candles straight down their waxy center
just by looking into the flame. Slick peels of
honeycomb melt into my palm and blister skin.
Then the world ricochets forward.
I plummet back into my body and there's
a thick distortion in audio. A constant pulse at
the back of my eyes, tuned to the rhythm of your
heartbeat. I look for traces of you, but,
God, you're lost.
Leaves fall as paper lanterns from wooden fingers.
Spiraling upwards on the breath of cosmos, back
to Heaven, lit like the sun on a marvelous azure
backdrop. I needed your wisdom, but all is gone.
Christ, you're dead.
Atheists are not meant to love. Realists are not
meant for passion. Idealists are the dreamers
of their own demise; only they can make it
A man once told me that the astute make terrible
lovers, but I'll fight that to the bitter end. Maybe
the irrational are so hopeful in their wafts of
hallucination they cannot come to mindful conclusions
of their forsaken love.
There's a poet under my skin, itching to get out
again. But he's wrapped so tightly in misery and
grief, he can't pull his fingers close enough to the
flesh tomb that surrounds him.
But a poet is no poet, if only one emotion is felt.
Likewise, no poet if only emotion felt. No poet, if
stone words fall on glass houses and lifeless birds fly.
Here I am, No Poet, dwelling on lucidity and broken
execution, failed thoughts and sorrow. Yes, I am
No Poet, and God, we're done.