Title TBA

I wrote your name
Across the sunset. The only sunset I could see.
I gauge my eyes out like a Greek tragedy. Now everything is unseen.
So We communicate only through evidence.
On gossamer wings we fly through existence.
We speak as little as possible.
We leave signs of life.
A dirty dish
A broken window
Little drops of blood on the porcelain bathroom sink
So I don’t have to check her pulse
I smell her shampoo in the bath.
We communicate through chores left undone and arguments left unsaid.
Where I make my final stand.
Hanging by a thread.
This is where I took my last breath.
Strange fruit grew here once.
The tree remembers.
The dirt remembers.
The sky so scarred that time has only made the memory more horrifying.
A guru evaporates
The earth grumbles.
Energy dispensed
I was here
This is where it happened.
All that could hate
All that fear
That is where I found tranquility
No bullet
No gun
Only limbs
Are you feeling a little down?
Are you sick?
Are those tears rolling down your cheek?
If I told you I’m dying too would you leave a tip?
I’m dying I’m dead I’m sick.
Will you stay?
Will you kiss these cold torn eyelids ?
A prayer That you’ll be there.
They have just like i said they would.
I told you i couldn’t last long.
I hate being right all the time. A curse
I hope that you’ll be there.
To take my hand to give unto the cosmos.
Yes I’ve been here before. Yes. I am hollow.
I dont want to suffer much more.
Bring on the karma.
Nope.
There is only more mud.
The smell of moss and damp clothes
Permeates from the swamp. That and the smell of earth. Of dirt and decay.
Dinosaurs and 50 other things trying to make a meal of you.
Snakes. Mosquitos. Alligators.
All hidden in shadow
Impossible to see
Somewhere beneath all that muck is where she is.
I know I’ll never find her.
What else am I gonna do?
I might as well keep looking
It is the least I can do.
I fell in once.
I don’t think I’ll ever be free of that smell.
It was under my fingernails. It was living rent free in my head.
It was on my clothes. it was under my bed.
It was
It is
What I am born of
It’s there
It exists
It makes a meal of mosquitos
A thunderstorm of fists
The last word I write
Is it really the end?

C