The XYphoid Process

I'm a hopeless romantic, you're just hopeless.

The windows of my soul never read false, the heart on my sleeve

never ceases to pulse the rhythm of its breaking.

Its ache has become a sideshow of lingering emotion

and its profit robs me.

To ford this tumultuous river, one must abandon all possession in hopes of crossing between the planes of our realities.

Lunar callings and celestial trumpets announce our heightened senselessness, adding weight to our ankles. Feet slipping, insecure on their journey, their parody mocks my life.

My esteemed self cries out in the pitch of its solitary confinement; the constraints of guilt and recklessness tear the flesh like a rabid dog, collapsing veins with the exhaustion of the fight.

Leaking from my body, trickling like sand in an hourglass, thoughts interrupt us carelessly. Gathering them together, they slip endlessly into a recitation of intended carnality.

The lovelessness in our lust is clear in its primal desire for wholeness and in its wake leaves a jagged scar between the callousness of our bodies.

Aesthetic warm envelops me, though my skin is ravaged with sweat and fear, and I'm guided into a world of impeccable banality.

And while the path is illuminated in the distance,

freedom at long last in sight,

its indifference reaches my ears with little more than hushed whispers.

How can I truly be free when love is both the shackle and the key?

The End

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