“On your own again,” she said.
“Pack your shit and hit the road.
Go where time travels slowly
and the wildfires of hell refine
what’s left of your soul.”
She told me this through
emerald eyes
as if I were the dilemma.
I’ll vanish before the clock
carries dawn with a fresh breeze.
I’m better off dead,
at least in my head.
What’s left unsaid
produces trivial storylines,
bearing the weight of insecurity,
the transparent phenomenon
that you languish bitterly,
alone in the middle of your bed.
Without me, you’re cold.
I’m the centerpiece above
your Christmas tree;
the one you see above all things
I’m the light you turn on when you
pursue me but can’t see me
in front of you on Christmas Day.
“Hi, it’s me.”
(© 2022 AC)
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