The Grinning Tears That Held the Shade of Southern Suicides.

There was the capture of life somewhere inside his eyes... We wiped away tears in the slipping of secrets, and I remembered the draw of suicide as the shade of Southern Octobers grasped me in his glance. He pursued me, his kiss and his smile the nets that tangled my feet up North, somewhere, on I-95, his voice interrupted my destination and I supposed his face at midnight would be my end, ironic, as he turned death.... upside down. We fed on control, that of ourselves, lost it in the snows that blanketed March, and though I counted every one of my footprints, I only circled myself right back to him. I never realized the nightmares that held me, the three a.m. teardrops that would stain his perfect shoulders because my lips tasted that skin right before my last breath was taken, in the seconds that proceeded the metamorphosis of life, and we took a turn to the left as we discovered each other on the inside, and I felt that existing in the middle was better... than never existing at.all. He heard me, every catch in my voice, every lost word that floated in between the curtains that we drew for safety, he agreed in the direction of sunrise, for who was I to argue with silence and the sleep that occurred after I broke my most famous rule? He wanted us to be normal as laughter interrupted me, as fear grasped my throat, and I choked on my own words as the dictionary definition of life eluded me, and for those seconds that threw honesty away, I remembered it was yet September, we were up North, and the surrealism of tragic Southern October nights were but the embers that burned on the edge of his snow-white cigarette and the ashes of his exhalations that scoffed impossibility at me with the hope that the end would recall I-95 and the remembrance of his smile at midnight.