There was a time when I stripped myself of your love, clawed heaped handfuls from myself wherever I saw the remnants of your name.
I mean, I just got way too tired of having to wear all those heartstring-hard-hats, to stop all those searching skill-shots you steady-aimed at my skull.
Until finally, clothed in my dignity, (the only truly worthy garment) I went my own way.

And now I stumble idly upon myself, writing love letters in the sand.
Tracing sad stories on the floors of this far too foreign land,
Which when read aloud ring with forgiveness,
But strike with honesty’s dull sting,
I watch my lungs fill with slow silence
To perhaps in victory, sing.
Inflate with timid hopes that after all these listless lifetimes, you’d still remember me,
For your hostage holding hyphae have never let my forget fly free.

Yeah, the thyme that seasons this hearty meal:
Life
Will only bring bitterness and disdain if not used effectively.
And unless I wring that scrawny bird’s neck now,
From a cold dirty phone box,
Which wearily shines the only light onto the dark rolling road to discovery,
And indulge in a heated self evaluation with that plastic receiver...
And my own pride
I can see that our next meeting will be decidedly less than the Rom-Com climax it could have been...
And that that thyme was poured clumsily instead of sprinkled with steady efficiency.

I will find the man that was me, spitting tired-tenderness from the lines he reads from your forehead,
(After he left you forever ago, still ain’t had time to grow.)
He will find you suffering from cirrhosis of the figure:
Holding empty handfuls of your own self love.
And will watch as crow’s feet complete stumbling sprints through the old metaphors of youth.
No...
That scowl is face-paint that will never wash away: it’s deep in the skin and you will hurt too hard without it.
Olay max-regenerist just ain’t strong enough for that shit.

So, I will take my chance, while the thyme is still sweet.

And we will slow dance to the circadian rhythms that rock us into the presence of
Generic,
Mass-produced
Individuality,
As the floor convulses and the fires rage and this house,
Falls fast,
‘Round our feet.
Until there is a single wall in this wide open space between me you and...

Everything.

And hard darkness surrounds.

We will work... together.
You with your floodlight face and warm velvet words will guide the way and mend the shattered day.

And I...

I can fly.

Over these walls we put up to guard our hearts,
I was so blind without the light in your eyes,
When we still fooled thoughts to thinking we were better apart,
And those walls reached deep into these dead black skies.

They’re still coated with the worthless words we wrote,
While we will live to love another day, and forever.
So just turn on your smile, clear your throat,
And I’ll take off this hardhat and rub my wings together.