Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

The contents of my old fashion are frozen to the side of the glass.
Sooty alchohol and stiff parts breaking off in the chill.
All new, redesigned custom tailored hell of a flop house and a broken-down furnace.
On the upshot, there's a metal garbage pale and plenty of bad poetry to burn.
Scribbles thick with charcoal for starter.
Hues tanins stains and smudges smolder for a brief flirtation of warmth.
The things I loved intensely for a few hours at a time.
Moments.
Flawed curvature.
Siren.
How I hated her for being so perfect today.
Hair down, like cool sunlight gliding down her shoulders.
Pixy smile, impish, coy, perfect for a precision nip
and a few thousand sunday mornings.
Reclined, and exposed to every clumsy compliment and stumbling second-guessed advance,
it was trust.
Not surrender, not extortion, not begging, bargaining or hurled glass.
You've had that same look in your eyes every time you have a minute for me.
Like sweet unburdening life support.
That wasn't there before.
I think the first time was when you asked about my dreams,
my goddaughter, the meaning of ambition.
I've seen it every day since.
Usually in the peace of sleep, or that unguarded exposition we share.
How we laughed about red wine, and for a few minutes out of the day we were alone in a crowd.
I

I can't put this on you.
This dreadful friendship that has become so haphazardly intwined.
I'd take it back if I could.
The coded cries for help.
The plain-sight brush against your soul.
If I were stronger, I would just smile and feel nothing,
leave you to status quo
and feign indifference.

but I'm weak,
weak, cold, and empty.
and I will take these paltry offerings of your affection
hold them gently against my cheek and pray, prey and pray upon them.
Waiting for the opportune moment
to hold your body against mine
for warmth?
for strength?
For my own.