Thursday, June 18, 2009

the feel of a waltz runs through your fingers,

shivers and twists, and still it lingers.

when i miss you,
i cry.
i pound my baby-tiny fists into the twisted dreaded woven mess of overdyed underbleached fuckups galore that lies in my scalp and grows its way into nowhere; headaches abound, i weep.
i press my face into whatever material i can grasp onto, feeling the spot on my thigh where we last brushed like it's a battle scar, wonder and memory controlling my senses. i feel the heat seep from my face as i simply cry into space, moving and writhing my body in the darkness to try and extract some sort of comfort from these sheets that envelop me.

(i could write novels of remembrance, of how your voice cannot even comfort, how your presence is all my body craves, how vivid my memories can be, how we are each one's halves, how we are magnetized by the poles; but no amount of literary purging can make these feelings depart.)

when i cannot bring the feeling of your proximity to my consciousness,
no sun can warm me, no drug can cure me. i am the same as the stormcloud ahead, looming slow and sad and scary above every tiny happy intertwined fingers, resting between hips on the sofa, watching tv with a head rested on a shoulder.
i want to electric-volt zap every little conglomerate like they're the scum of the earth, daring to whisper sweet nothings to the inner ear.

i can't help but miss you, boy. you know my trouble with loneliness and now the option to crawl back to every poison lip, every nettled touch that ever rested on my form, well, it's gone. you are my protector from each cruel slap to sanity, each bad decision placed at my choosing. and of course i thank you, of course i worship your presence, of course i cry for the familiarity that tingles in the skin on my inner arms.
like a stolen antique from an old house;
the patterned dust screams of a thief.

one day, some day,
we can fall asleep close each and every night
and need not worry of the hour on the clock
you're my cinderella boy; gone always at the stroke of twelve.

i know it makes you sad to see me cry, but it's for you.
i'd rather be crying alone for a heart halfway home in a big white truck, than a heart beating next to mine, as i lay kept awake by the hate for the body.
peace and love always.