Loveless, Can’t Love Any Less
In the web of red lines shining like rapid flashes of innumerable thunderstorms haunting heads when one closes their eyes, I see figures.
I see a deformed demon, and a memory.
I don’t know if it was easy to leave me loveless, on the simple presumption that I loved less, lesser than him. All I know is that since love left, I see the human who stares into my eyes from the mirror a little clearer.
The clocks have completed a gazillion revolutions since you last disconnected the phone call, and I cut the communication lines. The man in the mirror whispered to me, then, almost reminding me that it’s he who’s a reflection. His words still resonate in my head, a caffeinated push to pick up the pen, swim in the ink, walk over words through the dark and haunting woods.
Every night when lights leave me, I ignite my head and heart, leaving a spark in every word leaving my fingers. I know the man in the mirror, and he knows himself. On the pilgrimage I embark on, everytime the Sun’s east, once in near past, a smell lured me into a bierkeller. A step down, a world high, the man in the mirror asked me, “Why are you losing your sight?”
I sit in this dark room, dead doors and wild windows, claustrophobia forcing me to vent. So I do, pure after a pilgrimage, miles from the inn.
Clear eyes, one direction, you know what zone I’m in.
