Flickering in— out.
Wounds stitched with fidgeting,
There was a dream for which I was awake,
A glorified foolishness and tragic mistake.
Like a feverish thief, she reels,
From my arms to the bed—
From my head over heels.
O, you beautiful disaster,
You fictitious lure,
You ponderous nothingness,
Imprudent and impure.
Like petals, I shed,
Nude and undone.
Sheared and severe—
A moon without sun.
Swiftly I buckled at your unfettered charm,
As your fingertips caressingly weaved down my arm.
And surrendered myself like a teetering child,
Standing aghast at the gate to the wild.
The word yanks at the stitches that burst unsewn,
Shrieks into the deafness of happiness once known.
Now I know.
Now I do.
How I had such grandiose feelings for you—
They were as slippery as god;
They were thick and reeked of rain.
And though jarred and disenchanted,
They somehow still remain.
Even so, you are just a thing,
With one mouth and two eyes.
And kissable lips that fleetingly dripped
The most gorgeous string of lies.