They are leaning out for love and they wil lean that way forever.

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Message from Writer


about fantasy, heartache and the one i still write for.

April 5, 2021


she loves me with the tenderness one has for a particularly tragic attempt,
she leaves me with the certainty that i will break without her
she leans down to kiss me and all i can taste is
“you’re my tortured mind, my bleeding wound, mine to keep”
and i yield, i play the part, i’m hers to break
hers to amend

she does not know that i am all bone and steel
that my tragedy is locked tight inside a heart she can’t reach
she will not know of the theater, of the circus
that goes into making her come back to me, every time
still, she burrows her hands into my chest, plays with the lock
i let her, when she’s this close i can breathe easier

i do not know what she’s made of, i recur to fantasy
i think silk, moonstone, i say, ground, thunder,
when i lean up to kiss her, she must taste all these
she must be furious, must be amused
that i do not know her at all, that i do not wish to

we do not speak of the fantasy we think we are,
silk and theater
tragedy and thunder
wound and ground
we pretend we do not care
we pretend the world only holds our footsteps
but we know, and we taste,
that this is the best crafted of our lies
and yet we let ourselves believe.


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