February 6, 2015 by Wayne.
There are many deaths one must first die.
Bring tissues or a hardened heart,
calloused and cold,
either will do.
These doors grow
old and open and close
for a reason –
there are worse things to think about:
writing to scratch the compulsion or
to publicly diarize a plea for help
these are things,
for false faces to fix.
It helps to change skins
but if you wish to be close,
come round and
our mingling limbs will blot light from trembling thoughts,
drenched sheets, clenched teeth,
eccentric circles spinning
back into place, tongue on tingling
bud and I’d almost forgotten how it felt to stretch
my fingers around your gasping throat and
through your gaping gash and you’re darkening and
there are worse things to be, to have and have
not, to run from –
Yeah, no, fuck it.
It was Friday in a foreign land when you said you were sorry, really sorry, but you weren’t going to come round, not today or any day after and then we stopped talking and i haven’t seen you since.
except that one time when i thought it was you, walking by so quickly, hand past hand and hand-in-hand but you know, i’m
practically blind without my glasses.