I’ve been called upon
of a decency, obliged,
that I
must tell my truth and
it’s for these reasons alone:
I’m a curious neophyte
and she’s a wandering proselyte
whom I
have to come to find
is all who gives me peace of mind.
And I had gained her trust
over the course of years,
but not
with the sense of time
and without the sense of fear.
She is my muse,
my rival, and my flame,
and if
I should ever be led to Paradise,
it will be with her as my Beatrice.
.. How I –
Hadn’t I –
Found her soul so perfect?
She is silent and nonchalant,
my venerable confidant
with whom
my every season ends
and every new year begins.
She is loved, livid and lively,
And such a likely story
who can
create a world with her words
and play the stars in her eyes.
It was a foretold procedure of events
that broke our rights together in love,
and all
through a dark and dastard turn,
found me speaking in a doubled tongue.
With grandeur illusions of the sky
raining over the neon lights,
somehow,
I doubted I would have ever
ended up in this way.
.. So, why?
But why?
Why couldn’t I be like her?
It was then that I realized
I never knew that the sun
could fall
three hours too early
and rise three hours too late.
I couldn’t speak for her as I
can’t speak for myself
and I’ve
distanced myself to
the point of no return.
I turn to her still every night
to hear her voice muted and buzzed
while
the feeling of her heat
is an aside in my dreams.
So it takes a suicide
and a pact to forget.
She sighs
and I say to her
‘it’s your choice alone.’
