Some sort of swan song

It's called a studio bed
Even though
Not much happens upon it
I think of it
More
As a monk's
As it
Is meant for one

Making our sharing
That much more
Intimate
And uncomfortable.

two X's two X's two

I long to know the velocity of you
she says she
says
with a lisp dripping
spit on her
dress
downward turned head
too many
days and pills
and strange pillows that smelled
of lilacs and sweat
she says she
is
attentive to every inch
of him she
texts
with pictures and promises
a visit and sex
like
porn
stars fuck
but without dialogue
close while
touching from a distance

Left

Then,
Morning,
She'll make him breakfast.

She's been buying groceries for two,
He knows,
And he loves her desperately.

Then,
Evening,
He types words for her.

He has yet to lose this habit.

Three thousand miles,
And eight months apart,
Still remembering:

a rooftop
by the river

a cloudy night
cold

huddling together
under a vent

high
and hidden
and warm

this is the where and that is the when...

Later,
He still dreams of her,
And wakes

Knowing that the truth
That buzzed between them,
Was felt by everyone.

It pulled those others in,
But in a way,
It set them apart,

Two lonely people
With hands kept carefully
Across their hearts.

Twice you asked, twice you know

she
flutters

being alone
suits her

in notes
secrets related

she sings
daily

it's
okay

I kept count
for a while

now
I don't know

the seasons for
this broken bird

'Could you find me, would you kiss-a my eyes...'

Love often feels
like lost-at-sea,
drunkenly afloat.

They don't tell you that.

They fool you using
moldy movies
and suck ass songs.

Well here's some truth
and don't worry
this ends well...

loving someone
involves working
at maintaining levity

like a ballerina
landing
with a sense of humour.

You have to sneak
secret glances
and watch

when she has no idea.

Old haunts, nothing new

The sadness sits on my shoulders tonight.

It feels sweet and heavy and there is a fucked up romance to it, a bit like singing a song in the rain.

I walked home from the usual, head down, slowing my breath to hear my thoughts, missing drink and hating my need to imbibe and my inability to stop no matter how dark, how far, how fucked it got.

Most of the night has been spent waiting for the Word to arrive.

"It's not a religion
it's just a technique..."

The romance of the bottle, I have pursued and cultivated.

I have pruned friendships and loves accordingly.

I have decorated my apartment as a church to its holy fucking thrills while knowing it was nothing more than a stilted romanticizing of self destruction.



There is only God he says
eyes not looking for mine
the Devils are all
inside

with that he asks
for a few dollars
then wanders off
singing



some of the bottles held candles
which lit drunken meanderings
across each body
I brought home

no matter how many times I asked
in the morning
they would never tell me what happened

I was left with stains and shame
and faked remembrance of names

was I brilliant or limp
only the bottles knew
and those mute totems
weren't offering

Being out of the trees seeing that it was really a bunch of Goddamned weeds

2555642

this morning when
she texted HATE YOU
I returned with AWWW POOR THING

last night she called the cops
(not on me)
she cried shook
drank screamed

when she left at midnight
the relief lasted
until morning this time
I don't believe

hope or meditation
or fucking prayers
will help
us

everyone will tell you
they will
be there
forever

they will raise your dawn
with promises and arms
drawn across
hearts

already
aching
for
the next one.

she texted YOU ARE THE MEANEST MAN I HAVE EVER MET

and I don't doubt it.