Death of the Narrator

I want you to tear the breath from my lungs,
I want my senses at once heightened and blunted by your proximity,
your gaze momentarily glitching my reality;
I want to feel your presence like a crosshair on my back,
your absence like death’s prologue in my chest,
and I want the future in my mind to be the colour of roses;

I want you to rip words from my throat,
I want you to cut me open and spill my ink
onto a forest of pages, because it’s a thousandfold better
than when I score the wounds myself,
trying to make something of the gutted archives
of letters and rhymes and reason,
because alone I can only see the empty shelves,
feel only the silence heavy as a knockout punch,
only the wraiths of wishes thick and unfulfilled
twisted around my neck like old snake skins
sloughed off far too early;

Snakes give me nightmares, 
as I told you on the night we first kissed,

so make me feel something,
something that makes me forget history,
makes me leave the old ruins for good,
something that gives me a map to my dreams,
and a dreamless waking life.

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