I weave these ribbons between the hollows of my bones, sewing together the frayed flesh that you stripped bare in my pursuit of you. Replace my heart with a Cuckoo clock, and my mind with a mocking bird, then maybe I'll sleep during these fitful nights of uncertainty.
You came to me, pockets overflowing with tamarind pods, ripe figs, celery root and prickly pears, bravely holding me for thirty seconds "because that's how long it takes for the endorphins to be released." No one's held me that long before, and I could've fell to pieces in your arms because you felt so safe.
It lay heavily on my tongue, syrupy with a cloying sweetness, before I swallowed, feeling the burn of Napalm. "That was the only alcohol in the place," you observed, dryly but not without amusement. "Did you want a taste?" the words were too mature for me but you knew that, and perhaps that was the appeal for you.
The darkness slipped inside me at the end of a knotted winter scarf slung over the dilapidated door of a hotel room. There swung the jerking feet of my hopes for faith, love, brotherhood and a well adjusted childhood. It took me decades to understand that you can't change the shifting hands of Fate, much less the accidental slip of the foot.
The sky is grey, pressing down on me, always pressing down into that hollow cavity where my heart should be. The muscle and sinew still there, of course, useful only to keep time. It does that well, at least, better than a Rolex.
There's a void at the center of my being. I don't mean my heart. I mean a pillar, as if God drilled out the core of me, Some glorified test tube surrounded by flesh. It's not comfortable, But I admit it's a good place to store baggage.
I take this dilapidated notebook everywhere, even the bathtub. I like to let the hot water open my pores, my mind, my heart. Between the furious scribbling I set it on my chest, waiting for the next verse. The weight of my words presses me deep into the basin, the gravity of 10,000 nights, and I'm thankful the water is shallow, so I don't succumb to the burden.
Time crawls during an episode, the days and nights extending before you; a vanishing horizon. You begin to take notice of little things; the exact rhythm of your heart, the way a water droplet holds light. But mostly I sit in the stillness of apathy, stagnate as everything around me grows and changes while I molder. It's happened enough times for me to know that it's all a matter of time before it passes. So I sit, and smoke, and drink black coffee and wait until the light returns.
Buried beneath the raw flesh of every scar there lies a story, a veiled truth manifested in the physical form. If you listen close enough they will whisper, confessing our sins, our triumphs, our follies and, even, our secrets.
You were frail in body while I was delicate in mind, yet we curled around and underneath each other trying to provide comfort to one another - because that's what empaths do. You held me as I fell to pieces in your hands, mind ridden and soul overflowing with trauma, pain and anxiety. You held on until I stopped crumbling - not healed, but stable, enough. Then I held you, in your emaciated brittleness, all edges and angles, as you allowed yourself the space to dissolve in my hands, slipping through my fingers - like water down a drain. Somehow we held each other up, held each other together, just barely. Maybe that's what two people do for one another; the simple kindness of - offering safety, compassion, and companionship as we try to weather our way through the shitstorm.