I tried to spark up conversation with you, again, and it went no where, like always. Sometime a few weeks ago, I saw something on your Instagram that struck the final chord and I snapped. Those were the last tears I will shed over you. I see the hole where you use to be but it looks more like a door now, amidst a field of poppy blossoms.
[My mindpalace is pretty magnificent, if I do say so myself.]
I’ll always know to find you in the pines.
Goodbye, Sweet Dixie.
I didn’t know it then, but I wrote something for the occasion, a poem no less. I’m only just a wordsmith.
These thoughts circle like wolves.
Predators. Tooth and claw,
blood and bone; until the soil is saturated.
From this sanguine fluid,
the anemone blossoms,
in the memory of us &
I am laid to rest.
Needle pricks and splinters stab,
stuck, twisted into tender flesh
until the blood runs dry.
You are most vulnerable when you read.
Preoccupied, submersed and lost
to the words on the pages
you turn with consideration.
The way your fingers run along
the papers edge like a lovers caress;
Naive wonder provokes licentious thought;
I begin to question my own virtue.
To see in your eyes the desire that
aches between my legs would be my undoing.
I wish you would look up at me just now;
flushed, anxious and starving
for your ravenous appetite.
I have tasted fire from your lips,
felt the possession of urgent fingers
bruise into my skin without remorse—
but only in these depraved daydreams of mine.
I thought it would be different.
I thought that if you were exposed,
it would stop the rattling of bones
in your closet.
I thought we were the same,
you and I; the pair of us
our demons and in by so doing,
I thought you loved yourself,
respected yourself, and
I thought I wanted to be