Tell me,dear one,
how is it, tucked away into a corner of thoughtlessness
Do your bones ache,
your muscles protesting movement
vehemently screeching their disgust as you shift around,
unable to get comfortable under the foreboding stare
of all the people who you call “friend”?
I never could tell just where your loyalties lay,
and its quite the shame
for life would've been laid at your feet,
peasant worshipping the very ground you step upon,
ate the night with a star-striped bowl,
a meteorite spoon,
and a pint of milky way running through my lips
and down my throat,
into the galactic pit of nothingness
the places where your soul touched mine,
the places your words settled into my skin
like tattoos, of seemingly permanence
I still think of you,
the one I couldn't hold onto for fear of
Consumed by the thoughts you write like
a god creating entirely new universes
because the last one now bores you to death.
you stay in your home,
venturing out only to watch over your naive creations
how could you love me for me,
if you “don’t know” me?
the question bounces in my mind
and I know that I shouldn't worry about it,
that thinking about it makes the wound hurt more.
but love, things are not always what they seem-
our eyes and minds know this truth.
but what is truth,
if we don’t know it?