Like a pin drop of silence, or the drop of a single drip in a quaint pool

day one.

Rolling over sweaty sheets, wrestling with prophetic dreams

Awoken with eyelids bolting open, a clear gasp as though newly resuscitated

Stiff confusion and a dull, aching, empty void null with confusion.

day two.

Checking emails, checking paint brushes, checking paints

One, two, three, spam, trash, me, a dash of rich phthalo green

Painting of sincerity, gardens of lavishing clarity

Woken again by a heart attack.

day three.

Cinematic masterpieces inside bleak dreams where I can't open doors

I can't see her face, I'm too scared, is this what it means to avoid hurting her?

When reality sets in, my fingers trace my ribs; I wonder if one's broken.

day four.

Bags beneath rolling eyes, hollow stomach, and bitter minds

A mouth that used to speak so much is rarely open but to drink sorrowsome tears

Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone. Boy. Solitary confinement for self reflective destruction.

"Oh it just...slipped my mind."

The words slip out with a shrug.

If I'm burdensome, tell me before I spit out my sorrow with you.

day five.

It's been five days now. I guess it just...slipped my mind.

you would think, we were just strangers.

two bodies, staring at one another from distance close

and yet

so damn far, as far as the eye can see.

what was your name, why did we meet up?

what was your pain, did you do like I do and shoot up?

strange.

but not nearly the strangers we'd like to believe.

if we come from stars, and stars are our makers, and the likelihood

that your particles and mine were something special enough

that that first glance meant something more than

cheap glasses and fake cobwebs

the universe did us a favor and delivered us to one another

even though there are still a million other people who believe

they are just strangers.

we never were strangers after all

even though right now it sure seems like it.

When all is lost, I get on hands and knees

no, wait...that's not quite right

I lay like a corpse with an image clenched in my

oh, but then again...

Light a cigarette and wave it before the statue and then

maybe not always...

Yet, they speak in silence and send warmth in chills

remind me again, that I'm not alone

Don't break promises to gods

they will hold it against you

Don't lie to gods

they will scorn you

But the gods, they will take time to understand you

if you would just amorously give the the time

Like I give my time to you.

rubbing chins, necks, cheeks, and sideburns

unkempt bed hair and sideswept strays

it's as I fear, from the evidence of heavy bags under swollen eyes,

what a strange sort of five o'clock shadow going on

there is stubble although my face is roughly smooth

and it is smoothly rough with every stroke and rub

exhaustion is a hobby in its own right, I guess

if only such weariness were not tragically glamorized

I'd shave it.

Here, the trees stay the same, the flowers bloom in kind for one day, then weep themselves into the night, disappearing in scattered trace.

Emerald greens clash in peridot sheens, aquamarine is not the color of the water in the vase, but the color of the sky, while the vase is made of loving clay and the water pool reflects but the hues of life left growing when human eyes wander to other kinds of gaze.

I don't know these birds and they don't know me, but they still sing songs to wake me in the dawn and remind me I'm still alive despite the grief.

Glass for bones and gold for skin, I strip this useless royalty in exchange for steel rods and sturdy canvas so that I may be useful in some way during this travel.

Homes and houses, stargazing platforms and rooftops, in the night it is as though you spilled your precious navy ink into the sky before we decided the best option was to throw salt and sparkles to remind us of the good and bad in this tiny universe.

To be fair, the unchanging tropical seasons here on the other side of the world, nor the four seasons back on our side of the planet mean anything to someone like me when as much as I am at my happiest appreciating the little things in life, I am at my peak when I can share these views with who else but you.

They say, "Don't start your sentences with and," and I plead to them "But how am I to write the way I speak?" to which they shout, "Don't start your sentences with but!" then shrug and carry on as though I have no other input to offer.

And we move on.

Here's the deal though: you consider their words then shake them off like the neighbor's dog, you look me in the eye, tell me "I don't care how different we are, I want you" and we sit down and talk things out until we fall asleep in each others arms on that faux-suede sofa.

Ah. If only life were so simple.

Instead, all that happens are scapegoats in the yard, Hail Marys scrawled across the bathroom mirror, missing Xanax, and a beautiful rosary tucked away in your nightstand. You cry in my arms and remind me I'm the only one who hasn't abandoned you, before I'm so ashamed I run off and leave nothing but the presence of the ukulele I sang love songs about you on when we were akin to that of classic Greek or romantic Italian youths.

And so it goes, again.

Here I sit, here I stand, here I weep; a fool full of grief. With the wings of Icarus I've touched the sun over thousands of miles away and fallen deep into the depths of an ocean where I realize my faults, mistakes, and burdens. Like all the cigarettes I've burned into my lungs, or all the melatonin I've over-indulged in, the chest pains and lost days don't compare to the overwhelming guilt of self-willingly blinding myself to your tears and your needs.

But if the world were perfect, don't you know?

I'd work long hours at the pizza place, go home and take a shower, wake up and have coffee with my parents, before the long college hours consume me, and I sit beneath the sun with doctor scribbled notebooks and lazy ink doodles caricaturing the lecture professor with the hideous plaid pants. Before the clock strikes 4, the car windows are down and the white noise of speed and wind become the noise of freedom, before I pick you up from work and we listen to your favorite songs while we make fun of our co-workers as though it were some rom-com scene. We don't go home, we go to the park and sit on the hill we grew up on, albeit, at different times of our lives. Watching the freeway with all the cars and the cotton candy skies, the end of a 4 year-old's birthday party where he tells his parents he loves them while they put everything in the car; you grip my hand, gently, firmly, and almost anxiously.

As if your family could ever accept you, us, let alone...me.

But only in this current time where I'm the cowardly Prince and you are the Rose.

In this perfect world, your grip places my hand on your stomach and we talk about what to name our future child, if they will sing with your Apollonian voice or paint with my Pollock ferocity. I've accepted all of you, your faults, your quirks, your family, without fear nor anger; only forgiveness and kindness, like the man upstairs your family believes in, taught. I've shed the anger and resentment towards my parents, anger and resentment towards myself, and when I tell you I'll never hurt you intentionally as I slip the ring on your finger, you've forgiven me, and from there on like a newborn bud, believe and trust me. No one points out I have the wrong parts, and you aren't afraid to kiss my cheek when I sheepishly get the wrong brand of eggnog for you while we're out grocery shopping. No one tells you I'm a phase, you don't panic over your sexuality, and we realize like Agent Scully and Agent Mulder or Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer that there is no other partner that could replace the other.

But in this real world, this is the current reality.

I'm at my most vulnerable over thousands of miles away from where you are, too afraid to tell you I was more wrong than Paris kidnapping fair Helen, or more wrong than Zeus cheating on Hera and never learning his lesson. I've sat in the hospital and remembered the smell of ERs and ICUs, mangled legs under pale blue sheets, heart monitors innocuous blips becoming shortened blares; moments I realized life is short, I'm a goddamn idiot, and I wish you didn't leave me.

You are no replacement goldfish, nor are you some long-lost first love. You said you wanted time for yourself, and I smothered you, so you wanted space from me.

So I supposed I've answered myself blindly.