Spanish reds

Where does that leave us?

you can’t be real
and I cannot have known you
or written a novel about you
because that would all be nonsense
a ridiculous waste
unless I was with you
and not 32 and still a mess

it cannot really have been that many years since i’ve seen you
or we’ve spoken
or drank chai together.

you can’t be because you’re
every still frame from my favorite films
and every frozen note of decadence.

find you
and
love you
and
be with you.
but death is coming soon, so soon
and it is late and i cannot be sure that
it hasn’t already come and
this is how it leaves us
how you leave me
and i cannot feel anything without an emotional connection
and i can’t write for shit.
or sleep. God knows i can’t sleep.

So where does that leave us?

Alive.

Alive and with the possibility for every day, every hour
to bring change and growth and happiness and
you, your soft rolling eyes upon me and
descending into velvet darkness with no
hope and no past and no dreams
because none are necessary,
only you
and this thing,
whatever it is,
existing within my arms.
These words may be the most rubbish I’ve ever written but
writing them at least lets me know
I’m alive
and you’re alive
and as long as those two things exist,
someday so can we.

 

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