You could have told me

Somewhere between five and fifteen

That I was tying my laces wrong.

 

But I know you'll never read this

Because you're too far gone to remember

That I ever did put pen to paper;

The way we would spin words at

Each other in the kitchen like Santana,

Grinning,

Nonchalant.

God is a healer

But your prescription isn't.

I wish my inspiration came from

Where I thought yours did,

But your eyes are so heavy now,

Inky;

When you do sleep

Silence becomes blessed,

Muffled.

Is it really so dazzling, that new

Space in your head?

Not even seven percent for the

Bombshell blonde

You would have fallen for in a second

If you were even thinking about a wife,

Like before all I saw was pale skin

In the washed-out glow

From the light of your phone.

 

Tone doesn't mean a thing

When your nightmares are so real.

An impotent anger hovers

Behind closed doors

Forced open.

What happens to you now?

Are you taking the time to heal

When you haven't eaten in two days?

The TV is turned down low

And human flesh has started to look

Like your best choice.

 

I see your face dull,

Reflected in the worry

Of a grandmother's eyes.

I remember the pale pink,

The hard chalky roundness -

And so beauty will spill from my pen

Like blood,

Remembering how you used to live

Sweeping up the past.

But the broom sounds hurried,

Swift and angry

Against the cold, white tile.

 

Even rosaries can be exhausted,

As inanimate as you are now,

Stealing space on the couch.

Mine is a futile love, I know,

Mo col ceathrair.