(no subject)

[karmaq]

Iced with birthday cakes and honey,
I slip between states of consciousness
in a flow not easily followed
by the stories of my youth.
I wrote so many love letters
they blur together in a fog
of promises and highs.
My lovers overlapped
with such consistent devotion
I barely had time to say goodbye
for the greeting emerging on the horizon.
It was life itself making love to me
in face after tender face.
Holding me in its raspy heat
and making plan for our wedding day.
The day she walked out on me
was more than an ended love affair.
It was an end of being.
Now I don’t know what I am.
Or how to buy into this formulaic whining
with any more than understated rot.
You feed me a mixture of necter and bile
until I don’t know which way
food is meant to flow in me.
I sit in the sun and try to do it myself,
but it’s just a bypass of the meal
I don’t know how to get sustenance from anymore.
In my better moments, I snack on intentions
and sow dreams into the harsh ground
on the off chance something will take.
But moments are like thoughts
and these days I have to be more careful
than I’d like to keep them going