the first night God created was too weak, it fell down on its back a man in a cobalt blue suit. i was that man and i didn't die. i lived for you, but you don't care. you're drunk again, turned inward as always. nobody has trouble like i do, you tell me, unzipping your pants to show me the scar on your thigh, where the train sliced into you when you were ten. you talk about it with wonder and self-contempt, because you didn't die and you think you deserved to. when i kneel to touch it, you just stand there with your eyes closed, your pants and underwear bunched at your ankles. i slide my hand up your thigh to the scar and you shiver and i grab you by the hand. we kiss, we sink to the floor. but we never touch it, we just go tumbling through space like two bits of stardust that shed no light, until it's finished our descent, our falling into place. we sit up. nothing's different, nothing. is it love, is it friendship that pins us down, until we give in, then rise defeated once more to reenter the sanctuary of our separated lives? sober now, you dress, then i sit watching you go through the motions of reconstruction... reddening cheeks, eyeshadowing eyelids, sticking bobby pins here and there. we kiss outside, and you walk off, arm in arm with your demon. so i've come through the ordeal of loving you once again, sane, whole, wise, i think as i watch you and when you turn back, i see in your eyes acceptance, resignation, certainty that we must collide from time to time. yes. yes, i meant goodbye when i said it.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this poem from a man's point of view because I always
view the world from an outsiders point of view. It helps me keep sane.
Birth sign: Not entered
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