Hanging On.

It’s early morning.
You were late last night.
I’m a wrinkle colder.
Your heat is still quite right.
An abused reflection
Calls back my will to fight,
Since absolution long since died,
In the barrenness of past nights.

Passion sputtered out
Like oxygen on the moon.
The stars are burning out,
They’ll lose their light soon.
Love is now sympathy
Given to a blubbering whale
Disemboweled by some harpoon.

What of the time lost?
Who knows what you do now;
How much sensible truth
Will conscience allow?
We both cling on like idiots
To some ill-spent, ill-matched vow.

It’s early morning.
You’re snoring in a heap.
I do not even seek
Any inclination to weep.
All I ask from this burning day
Is a quieting chance to sleep.

7am
21st April.

 

Horror Movie

It feels like you

scoured my heart,

with Freddy Krueger nails

and left nothing

back for me,

but a bad edit,

in a horror movie.

(Sometimes even those

get the chance at a sequel.)

I leaned in

to lightly kiss you;

you leaned back;

away, away,

so far away,

that a stranger,

with a kind look,

could say, “fuck you?”

and I would

say “okay”.

It’s a haunting,

of past faith

and future ruin;

where nothing lives,

nothing’s left to give.

I can’t even wait

for some mythical letting go,

to cart me away,

away from the hope

that you will perhaps,

someday, see

you lean back

into the nothingness

of the ending

of your flop horror movie.