about fantasy, heartache, and the one i still write for.

she loves me with the tenderness one has for a particularly tragic attempt,

she leaves me with the certainty that i will break without her

she leans down to kiss me and all i can taste is

“you’re my tortured mind, my bleeding wound, mine to keep”

and i yield, i play the part, i’m hers to break

hers to amend

she does not know that i am all bone and steel

that my tragedy is locked tight inside a heart she can’t reach

she will not know of the theater, of the circus

that goes into making her come back to me, every time

still, she burrows her hands into my chest, plays with the lock

i let her, when she’s this close i can breathe easier

i do not know what she’s made of, i recur to fantasy

i think silk, moonstone, i say, ground, thunder,

when i lean up to kiss her, she must taste all these

she must be furious, must be amused

that i do not know her at all, that i do not wish to

we do not speak of the fantasy we think we are,

silk and theater

tragedy and thunder

wound and ground

we pretend we do not care

we pretend the world only holds our footsteps

but we know, and we taste,

that this is the best crafted of our lies

and yet we let ourselves believe.