Deluxe

Crumple the paper,
on which you etch-a-sketched your heart.

You thought he was worth
every keyboard click-clack
but jump back, honkey cat.

He’s just a man.

His bed is unmade.
His hairline will fade.
He has errant hair in strange places.
When he sleeps, he makes strange faces.

You’re just a fan.

I try real hard
to see through him
with my x-ray vision;
the HDTV of my emotional memory;
the illusion of fusion;
Yea, I try to see through him.

But everytime I look at him,
I just see myself.
For better or for worse–
Norma Rae or Patty Hearst–
I see what I’ve projected onto him
rather that what springs from inside him.

I used to believe in souls
but I had a dream within a dream,
in which I couldn’t scream
when I found out that
souls only existed in dreams.

The depravity of gravity.
The gravitas of the depraved.

To an old lover, who was young
I said:
“I miss you that you used to be, when I was with you.”

Also, I wrote:
“I miss the gleam in your eyes when the gleam was for me.”

Now, I think that I miss the me I used to be,
when I was myself.

The corrosion of an explosion.

You are given towards excess; even your sadness is deluxe.

There is someone for everyone
but everyone has that someone
who authors their tears and fears,
and, in turn, truly steers,
the paper boat as it approaches the funnel.

The finality of a funnel.
The totality of a tunnel.

With sonar, with gamma rays,
through a heavy-handed haze,
the doubt pushes you towards paper.
(Crumple the paper,
on which you etch-a-sketched your heart.)

It keeps you at a keyboard.
(You thought he was worth
every keyboard click-clack
but jump back, sad sack.)

Everytime you think
the sea should overtake the ship.

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