Only Because You Asked

I’d like to spin your voice
into slits of vinyl;
hear the dips skip into static,
fabricate your flaccid,
casual vowels into acid,
corrode your syllables
into a skeleton of coarseness
to graft into your spine
to tell me face to face
how you really feel;
because somehow
I don’t find a two a.m text saying:
“It’s over…”,
clear enough.

I’ve spent two and a half afterlives
purging the purgatory of my existence
from the faults you claimed
quaked us in halves too distant
to pigment with closure.

I’ve watched the tectonics of your logic
shift us into shapes
we sift ourselves through
searching for better yous
in hims and hers
while hinging from the clefts of whys
I’d die to suicide from
to find a better us.

But I can’t resurrect
an atom of myself
to loathe an iota
of your essence.

I’m still dreaming to live
an unpredictable past;
to fasten the shadow
of the me before you
to fractured ankles
of my future,
in hopes of living this present
above my tombstone.

Because there’s no one else
I’d rather see rain dance
under amber lights of night,
to sweep streets
with ballerina-like feet
absent of grace;
to wake puddles
muddled with my complacency
to your rejection.

Because Cupid’s aim is amiss,
the vintage of Valentine
births the villainous in you
and the death
of everything merry I’d marry;
to hear the verity
in another’s “I do…”

I’m addicted to the taste
of your amalgamations,
yet nothing
will ever be as hallow
as the hollowed moments spent
soaking digital repudiation
through naive pupils
and having their tears confess
to eardrums that’d shiver
at the thought of listening.

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