Of dreams.
Of memories.
Of wounds.
Of scars.
The 49 days of mourning have passed.
Where does that leave us?
Everything is in a box.
Junk, hearts, life.
I'm just an interchangeable part.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Angry? Hurt? Used?
Mostly stupid.
I played into the easiest move.
All my pieces captured.
All my stones removed.
What to do now?
Fix a broken heart?
Reglue all the pieces?
Find a nice quick fuck?
Oh what I'd give for some hot
slick
nasty
reciprocating love.
Dirty, quiet, and over before you know it.
Oh but the memories...
Oh but the memories.
As I trace a wandering minstrel finger over my new pinky flesh above my right eye.
Oh but the memories.
How they burn like blackhole daggers.
Sinking, sucking, taking.
Always taking.
Oh but the memories.
Oh but the jagged well manicured nails, scritching carefully over my hair, down my thin shoulders and weary back.
The snakeskin pumps,
the smell of jasmine,
the white pleather against my denim.
Oh but the memories.
Standing up,
sitting down
holding hands.
Did any of that happen?
Am I even remembering, or fantasizing?
No, there's a warmth here, something virtual, something that never was.
Something given, not taken.
And that's how I know
this girl doesn't exist.
How many times...
How
many
times?
Of me.
For me.
From me.
What of it?
The grace period has passed.
What will you do now?
Find yourself,
to lose yourself
in another
all over
again?
Perhaps
this time
without the fleeting fancy of failure.
Of forsaken truths, as thee,
love.
That four lettered blasphemy.
What will you do now?
Child of grace
boy of legend
son of the empty mist
How will you lose
yourself
this time?
