Last night you told me you were going to be married 
That you’d found your choice 
your settlement 
That you’d known fear and 
found the means of which to live with it 
A chosen partner for the shadows 
Except for the ones deepest in your skull 
A willing commitment 
towards the fires 
except the ones you light with your feet 
A tangible hold on purpose, apparently.   

A determination towards happiness, never mind to ride of grace  Your sincerity lacks subtly.  

Scythe to my scalp 
Rebar to my veins 
Napalm your wax of Paris 
The holes you’re trying to fill in were dug with your very fingernails 
Tears in your styrofoam cup, let it settle let it muddle a 
molotov cocktail of sympathy and of drastic proportions
I’ve never trusted what you call reliant. 
Thrown towards your subject of protest
I think that’s me  

The me in you
Or rather the you in me in the back of me
the me in you you only know for certain –  

How you’ve hurt and betrayed 
and laid it all on 
me and with your sincerity you hope 
and aim 
for alleviation of your character 
You think to tell me is to bury you, to command the pyre
to hold in what we were
what you are, once again, what I am 
I am the ghost and
you can’t dream the weight of these shackles that hold in all that is long and of knowing you, your fists to my cheek one thing
the way you told me my days were limited, the same
But how I was New York  

Your sorrow and earnest degradation
of what’s left of my heart
And lately what that’s been
A yearning for more
The desire for cliffs and empty oceans of Moab
Looking at mountains as the reefs
they once were or islands belonging to a Jurassic sea
On my last night in heaven you spew me your words of Hell
That it is with him you’ve decided happiness
Though it’s with memories of us you’ve preserved freedom.   

Though how I envision it.

We’d have,

Polished concrete. 
White linen. 
A southern barbeque.  

Rooftop in Red Hook.
We had dancing pandas  

You’d rapture me  


Sans shirt or contentment though I fetishize a tux  

A B-n-B.   

Probably off of an AirBnB.   

Edison bulb lights and mason jar tartars.  

The songs we used to dance with brood  

Now caricatures of our adolescence and not what either of us have remained.       

That’s as far as I usually get.