A billion words to purge from an exhausted mind, cursing the irony which makes tear-drenched memories show no patina from wear. The head-shot; a check-out queue; an everyday reminder that love could be nothing more than another's illusion from the past. Just twenty-six years trivial, front-porch slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Quiet and still, a skyline replete of beautiful and romantic visions lie ungraciously fucked half to death. A birth of the cold is the precedent of bittersweet tomorrows to come.
Humor is the mendacity to serve, glaring through an abbreviated lifetime of work, hope, time and faith. My own debts turn like the worm, and richer made is the muck for pigs to waller with no abandon. The air is sickly-thick and stagnant in the abscess of truth, yet I still somehow hold this other life's breath in wait. The final straw will be first on the floor from high atop the vanity.
In staid darkness, rest is elusive and gut-wrenching pyrrhic blasts singe the souls left tangled in knots. I, between sweat-marred linens, carefully watch the sun and the holding pattern it keeps. At night, static waves from the other side of consciousness pulse through my body in sine... a synthetic, omnipresent tune.
To turn away, this mortal coil merely binds taut to a line beyond the horizon. Only with closed eyes am I able to see in color, to see the other side of this pain. And like children playing tin-can telephone, what I see there is him - my one and only friend.
Sometimes I look in the mirror, remembering his life and smile; though I can never not help but trace my own silhouette through the blue eyes in front of me. I miss him more than anyone could ever realize.