real teal reality
I inhale the smoke of you. Get high on a memory. The trip takes me down it’s home lane. In my hand I hold the fork in the road we didn’t take. To hold it so close is to almost be impaled on it’s sharp “what if?” shape. But love doesn’t hurt you so clean like that. Beauty will keep you in gold and silvery slavery chains. A question may leave you cold and shaking in the dark. But love, love is the one to keep you living but beheaded on the wet red battlefield. Your smoke sinks in my lungs, and this will be my slow poisonous death. I feel like a weekend funeral. I feel like a drunk at a wake. And any other way I would not have had it.
A lonely phone rings. The ghosts of you have finally left my bones, I lied. Though I did so with honour, because, as can now be seen, I did not feel then the slow drip by drip that ripped thread by thread that held me still in place in the past. I wonder, did I still then shudder slightly inside whilst talking to strangers. I’ve forgotten your face, stopped dragging at myself to trace your phantom’s inflammation.