Monday, February 24, 2014

Romance as Usual, I'd Assume



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. 

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