I could write of the rapturous terror felt in your presence, of your eyes, your smile and such,
But thats not where my interest is sustained.
We gaze outwardly together
in the same direction.
Shared vision, shared passion,
a shared bitter drop of poison,
That elusive third thing between you and I.
I want to spend my time supporting you.
I hope for dementia in old age where my only memories are of your laughter,
So whenever I close my eyes
you’re the color among the phosphenes.
I know how things are.
That my honor is beset by horrors on all sides,
by the nature of the cost
of actively becoming, always becoming.
I know that I am the red one,
with the black felt hat,
rekindling your long abandoned dreams
Gripping the thickened nerve in your gut.
I’m the heated ringing in your ears,
burning in the dark corners of the songs sung in tequila nights.
This is the despair,
in Mary Shelly’s wine.
To love the monster, and curse creation,
for your love.