Sometimes it’s more than poetry.
It’s been a while since the last time I wrote you on a blank page
It’s been a time, a tough one, without you in my words, without your ray behind my pane
It’s been a lie, to think that I might sound good when read, when I was only trying to sound in you, to sound like you, to be a pain, a reason to your recklessness, a reason to your smile, a reason to blame
It’s been mine, my maimed prose, my poetry if I dare to say, my voice is misvoiced, my words left array
It’s been null and void, the memories that smell of you, of your breath, of your sighs, of my ribs that flow and ebb at your heart’s shore, my hands that touched your lungs, that were a part of your very breath.
And all of that doesn’t mean a thing now. You reigned me, you ruined me, you raged me, you rushed me against my own walls, my own fucking ramparts, you besieged my little paradise where you were the landscape of my mindscape, my Escape, and me your goat-scape.
Glorious and bloodless yet, left alone.
Yet to come, I still do my night watch at my rampart, peering in the dark for the dazzling light of your rays. I love every inch of your war.