Noyadé

SSMTWTFS

One Saturday two years ago,
He told me God gave him the middle finger.
If you asked him what made him say so, he'd tell you:
"The winds blew home but the leaves fell up and I was nowhere."

Sometimes he takes my hand like it's the ghost of a girl he used to love.
Other times, the vultures sing with him as he destroys for poisonous validity.
On a Sunday he decides Alice in Wonderland is his accepted reality.
Though when I turned to a boy of a different face and body, he grounded himself to this reality.

And my feelings were unadulterated,
But his were dry and corrupted from another.
On Monday he will prefer to converse with me as if he's never moaned my name in bed like a prayer.
As if he could reenact the strangers who can kiss without purpose.

Our white sheets are colored scarlet.
We know what red means and it isn't love.
Since the wind lost its direction on Tuesday, I'll lose grip of mine when he builds his brick walls.
I'll forget of the times he deems me his slowed slurred sexual fantasy for I'm... exquisite.

He will learn to let the bathtub run with another color of fatality and his name is etched on me everywhere forever.
He's not gone, not really, he's just not mine to dream about on Wednesdays.
I'm not his to protect.
He's not mine to love, not now, not ever.

And so he becomes this stranger, and he sheds his fingerprints.
Yet he grasps my heart with such intimacy.
But he can't hear me in Thursday ward rehabs for people like him.
No one can find him, not for me, not when he's tried so hard to cut his ties to me.

Except Postal Services.
No one could ever shut down such a righteous force.
Postal Services never fails to provide through human opacity.
Through this, is the unsent package waiting for me, laced with the false confession for love.

And he still sings to my heart.
He'll see me two hours into Friday and he will be crying.
And I will have not ever felt my heart strings pulled until then.
So the leaves whispered the memories and I fell in love with his voice all over again.

And his voice broke away and my world tore itself apart for someone I loved for three impossible years.
And when he lifts his head off of my shoulder at last, his smell will drug me.
I can't forget his voice.
I'll never feel more lost without him.

So I spend my Saturdays alone now.
He is the director of a tragedy and he coaxed me into playing the main role.
And I'll never really stop loving him.
And he'll never really start loving me.