A manifesto for the lonely.
When I betrayed him, he left me gutted and bloodied for a long time.
On a very dark night, I asked him if he still loved me. He said yes.
Opium had taken over my life at that point. Devil’s candy, I wanted it more than anything.
Now, that’s not the case.
He is boney but not grim. The others can’t see past the black robe. It’s only a shield.
They haven’t looked into your eyes the way I have.
In him, I only see earthly greens like leaves, mantises and mildew. He is sturdy as the trunk of a hundred year-old oak tree and effusive like the edges of the newborn sea.
We drove through hills, hair and music in the wind. We numbed ourselves with opium, drink and smoke, the bad old days.
The heart is made to feel pain, and the soul carries it through time.
Things are so familiar. We’re just two melancholic peas in a rotting pod.
Afraid of the dark, we’ve used man-made fire to fight back, but it left us with scars and soot.
There is a black box buried deep inside each of us. There’s nothing anyone can do to open it because the keys were never made.
It’s a burden, a primeval grief that can’t be washed away. We both understand.
It’s so ugly and heavy. I want to rip it out so badly.
As much as we want to love and dream, we know there’s an old demon coming.
It’s always coming. Keep your ears to the ground.
We hate the same in this ever-fading paradise. End of days, please.
Yet, we embrace it for all its glory and despair– tomorrow’s parties and great floods, family dinners and parents’ funerals, destructive lovers and lovely destroyers.
From California 1 to California-none, he wants me to have her.
He sees me and I see him. Our bond is rare, even if we yearn for women.
Problem is, I’m not sure we can be free. These catacombs don’t have exit signs.
And in this dismal future, our penchant for self-destruction reigns supreme, a plague.
Forever lost in a hunt for a high in the heat of the night.