Ill-Fated Renaissance

October 21, 2008
By
We are so happy and there is never a dull moment,
We intertwine our hair and pretend it belongs to one.

You are more remarkable than Hildegard of Bingen,
Your voice is better than the one in my head.

We are only bodies and words,
But how can I explain the silent communication between us?

You are contagious,
And my devotion to you is greater than that of Charlemagne's.

All I know is the skin on your neck
Is so different from greasy, human steel.

I try to be deep and metaphorical
But really all I want is your loud laugh.

Through a mirror in the river I look for you,
A floating white boat?

Through a mirror in the night I search for you,
A floating white moon?

Lost, like sudden unexpected blackness coveting my sight,
I am sucked under the ocean desperate for air,
And yearning to use the bathroom but no bathroom near.

I am a gilded butterfly
Who will succumb even though your a kamikaze.

Our bodies are no longer intertwined like vines.
They turned black. They withered and grew hesitant and
Fearful.

I grow old, malnourished, and foul,
Subsisting off the dullness and silence of others.

Life is now one interminable, horrid migraine.
Is there anyone else other than you?

So I give up, and lay down because I am so cold and tired.
I've looked for you,
Even inside of me I looked,
But you are not there,
Not even a hollow version of you.
I miss you: your gilded mad friend misses you.





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