and everything you do makes me want to die.
09/29/2005 05:46 a.m.
i used to wonder why he'd never
say i love you, blow secrets to the
winds
when i wasn't looking
or hold me as close as he could,
as if he was afraid to catch cold.

i used to wonder why, but i cannot
any longer, i can no longer wish
for his return.

i often think that we will meet again,
outside some shady bar where blunted
sillouttes melt into the sidewalk;

we will meet, if we meet, and i will walk
right passed him without the slightest look,
the slightest glint of recognition.

and the shadows of our ghosts will dance
and play behind our backs. it seems
only the blind are meant to see such things.

(those things even we aren't supposed
to
remember)

and i wish now, after all these months
and tears
and wishes to the stars

that i had held your shaking corpse long
enough to breathe life into those
hollow bones, to illicit something beautiful
out of, dare i say it, my own destruction.

and now, if i were to look upon your face,
painfully worn by fears and time and distance,
i'm afraid that you would be
foreign to me, like the words
i love you
and a tearless drive home.