by ea

we ain’t talked in a while.
i should have called you first,
now, we ain’t talked in a while.
rewind, memories in real time
of mirrors in reverse
and your figure ‘gainst the lights.
our eyes, intermingling spies,
sierras in the terse
valleys, rivers out of sight.
i sigh, desolate in desire.
the kernels that emerge
of relief are just the wiles

of time. recovery defined.
that thing called moving on
is a myth, or so i find
as smiles corrode my peace of mind,
invaders in a hearse
color coded as respite.
delight, analogous to spite,
the quicker i endorse
it, the more i realize
that i’m without you by my side.
admittedly, of course,
i’m the reason for this tide

of skies that thunder my demise—
that fritter into horses—
the horses of the night.
need time to slow down this decline
'cause phantasms are haunting—
the visions of a life
that’s past invigorate this shrine;
my ritualistic urges
to keep you on my mind.
a minefield of emotion spires
and fastens me to forces
that do incentivize

this bind. now you’re my sin and vice
and i could search for nurses
but judgement is the price
of absolution re-divined:
a purgatory airless
of feeling and desire.
yet, i could voyage through that plight
and slip into a gaunt
image husk of my device.
but apathy’s a lonesome crime,
a ghost of what i was,
that’d be just like suicide.



No reviews yet.