Pillowcases

When the moon crochets a pattern so subtle that I think I can hear it; This is fluid feeling; this is a force I cannot replicate. A calm silence in the silence- I can feel it. You’re in love and you're alive and despite every heart-shocking, benevolent crucifixion you hold on the dead cross of a body you obtain, you are breathing. This isn’t life, this is barely hell. We swore off religion lifetimes ago, this is just another hotel room. You don’t miss a bed bug infested sofa, sheer tastes like gold against your skin. You are hugging a silk pillowcase and I might just murder you with it. Might just suffocate the ever-loving, charismatic, life-giving, illumination machine that lines your insides, I might just stab you deep and call it sacrifice. Don’t know why I think about it- I’d never come close. Not on purpose, not like this- Comfortable, crucial, alone in a lavender air pocket. I might just do it when I’m blindly intoxicated and possessed by the mere vision that contains me. I might just rip the band aid-no preparation, Just throw the regret out of a one way bus ticket and into the nearest pothole. The car stops short and we’re awake again. Frozen at a green light, am I part engine or am I just the damn response? I am the tallest man on Earth who isn’t a man and doesn’t belong here- Here being relative, Man being the half of me I hope to be when you need someone to buy you flowers or hold you in the rain. Woman I love, To see a woman in the mirror- I do not feel I deserve. An idealistic hypocrite who thinks herself inevitable, I am. I pull the covers over my head, pretending this quilt is a tapestry . I pretend your words are a device and I am on life support, blood staining my tapered hospital gown as I am miserable with stale breath, begging you to pull the plug. I will call it a medical device. I will not call it love.