I promised to love you
through all of your breaking
but like you my promise is dust now,
buried with prophets and deists
who all forsook you
with power and curses; dust
I'll one day piss on
in a stained glass stupor
steadily forgetting your features
until the next time I miss you. Eventually
I'll stop hating and killing and crying
and spilling but not this year,
not unless I die before it kills me.
So now I'm writing letters to the wind
like I might actually see you again
but I won't. Even if you existed
somewhere past death
we both know I've been hell bound
since I first used my brain.
If you do ever make it back to me,
make sure you've asked your God
if this is what real romance
is made of.