the real kind
which I didn’t even believe in.
But it exists,
because i can feel the space
where it used to reside
Not so much in the shape
of any heavy stone
as much as a heart of fire and air
that keeps you warm
no matter how much it rains
nor how dark, nor how cold it gets
And, you know, everything else is secondary;
even all the conversations we ever had
that always meant something
because we were always
even if it always
You can’t hate the sun
when you live in a country
that’s perpetually frozen.
I’d rather burn than melt.
I’d rather burn than do anything else.
But, how do you explain that to the sort of coal
that chooses coolness over the truth of that fire?
We’re all only Moths, my friends
Pick your flames, and dance as close as you dare.
We’re only human, my Love
Pick your sins; it’s better to care than forbear.
I’m tired of explaining why I think what I do
and if there’s anything I miss more
It would probably be to be understood.
(But I still miss that fake construct of make-believe warmth and contentment that I have fought against for at least a decade.
Maybe I should be more concerned about missing my mind. Because, I have obviously lost it.)