I'm going to make up a word now.
Laceromembrum,
To tear each piece apart.
Lacero, tear to pieces,
Membrum, each division,
Of me.
There is no considering the possibility in which I lose him,
Because doing so would be tragedy.
Losing him would be losing a piece of myself,
And any love I have too soon thereafter is a band aid on a gushing arterial laceration,
Something that cannot be fixed without the sutures of a simple facet-
Time.
There is no "what would it take"
Only "how much would it hurt".
In the world where I lose him,
I am torn apart.
To shreds.
I already will be, Sol,
I am suffering from laceromembrum,
And I can't, can't, can't escape.
"Him" is more than simply aeternum,
But you, Sol, as well-
The only difference is the speed.
To boil a crab,
You slowly increase the temperature,
And before it knows it,
It is dead.
Laceromembrum,
Slow and steady,
Torn to bits and pieces as I give parts of myself away.
I am losing you.
I am losing "him" no matter what way I go,
And to lose you slow tears me apart,
But to lose him fast is to cripple me.
There simply isn't a "what would it take",
There simply is laceromembrum.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoetryVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
