I do not know how to start this,
All I hope for is
Nobody else relates to these
Words I have written for you
I am told it is easier
To think of you as
an impossible that goes on.
Last night,
You came in through my window,
and asked me to list all the things
I cannot save you from.
I am writing this at six am in the morning
At the back of a nearly expired milk carton.
of late, it has dawned on me how
I never got to ask you
Why do you hate that patient in ward 5088 so much?
or what the view from your window is
Whether a run-down bridge
or a fluorescent mulberry-lit store th
only sells maps of Cincinnati
With brown borders
Like the colour of your eyes.
It is 2000 again
it is the dawn of the new millennium
From the dawn of a new world
To the end of one world
And the birth of another.
as I sit in an airport
Watching everyone move in a transitory state,
I am leaving so many things behind,
but I am going someplace new.
You are a transient dream, never lasting,
Unbeknownst to me,
Asking me how long it has taken for me to get here
I am hesitant to tell you how I had to make
A Faustian bargain or how I had to pawn off
My light brick radio that
Only played Velvet Underground
to afford a kayak to get to where you are
When I finally see you in this new hazy mome
at the world's end, in an
’80s-themed cranberry Holiday Inn.
Right now, it is too early in June
For the runaways to feel this akin
to wait for moments
That never ended up happening.
and it is too deep in the morning
To look in the mirror and find
A past version of me that
only ever wanted to be a runaway.
So I have decided to leave you.
With a bell jar filled with poorly represented feelings.
and an inquiry into the nature of our kind of pain
Will reveal
You have built your world with such perfect pieces that
I have now made peace with the fact
There is no place for me there
I have been so many people over the years
Thinking back on all of them
Makes me feel disconcerted
The constant repetitive ringing
inside of my head has heightened so much
That I can not distinguish anymore
Between the incidents of the
Past or the present.
To cease this repetitive ringing
I write out a lament in Letraset
on lost feelings, past memories,
I have conjured all of my misplaced guilt
and enclosed it in satin Armour-wrapped
Around 19th-century mysticism.
The armour, now ruptured, reeks of repugnancy all throughout.
I have taken all my Rationalizations
and stamped them all over my egotistical whims,
Which have caused them to mutilate into
A crash site in excess of artificial keepsakes.
There are other ways for people to fall apart
That does not end up with your father killing himself.
And decades later, somewhere in Munich,
A woman leaves a hundred angry voicemails
and starts to hypothesise about how self-inflicted abuse
is just a desperate annotation of self-love.
When you choose not to reply to them,
She weighs her chances of ever getting a reply against
Velouria, an amnesiac,
Is constantly on 18 mg of
Percocet and LSD,
and Believes that the world
at its core, it is merely symbolic.
She dreams of a
New resurgent world,
Born out of a casualty