Melissa She sits and cries, and suddenly, those warming, goofy smiles mean nothing ‘cause she‘s real, FOR SHE WAS THE LIFE-POET, dancing, tiptoe, across imaginary fields of verse, invoking Elliot in her frowns and Byron in her laughs, and I loved her, loved the quick-moving reality of pretending she, and I, and everything before us was the absolute truth, believing in no more than the dirt, but now, it’s real, but not as God intended (Tho he did), ‘cause the heavy-handed blackjack-bearing thug of truth sets his sights on my broken bones, and I bleed, and die, ‘cause my beautiful little friend has stared down the darkly vined path, and so nothing is sacred, anymore. I pray she rests her head, but she walks, like I always seem to, praying the ground may love me while the boot relentlessly keeps time on the back of my head, while the inconsequential dork sports his remorse for not knowing enough, while I remain, beaten, tossed about, like some rag-tag little monkey-kid puppet punching bag. And so, the coroner files away my eyes with all the precision of a Buick, and my brain is numb, cold, and I find myself dreaming about how I’d like to hold her, these untouched arms scream out in pain, salvation seems some dim memory, and I stand, tho sitting in time, before the page, bing-banging the percussive snare of the keyboard, snapping out verse after verse of mindless drivel to the Gods I adore, love, beauty, harmony, and the touch of another. How I miss those days long ago, when I could feel someone’s arms around me, now I am cold, weak, each touch seems further from reality as my mind slides away, and I can accept nothing anymore, for I am the dark, beat, weathernworn book of uncertain salvation. And so my muscles creak, and the wind shrieks samasara on the hills, as I come to face my memories, but your eyes, as they go aloft, cast a glow on the soft folds of your glistening body, my little god, for this I love you for nothing, for the memories of the lies we once were keep me warm ‘cause the night, she is so cold.
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