dorian grey's reflection

We drew ourselves with a shaky hand,
and the pencil shavings tremble next to the charred paper
because there is an honesty in the perfect uselessness of art.
I am no master. My sketches are drawn with charcoal
clutched between trembling fingers, and I paint
the same way I love; with a desperate, reverent fortitude.
There are days where I sear the profile of your face
into the backs of my irises so I can remember
what it looks like when you are happy to be with me.

Your muse entered my system like an allergic reaction,
and my poetry is anaphylactic shock. I want to carve
your inability to trust and tolerate out of your soul
the same way my knife grazes the sides of the woodwork
that I swear, someday, will be able to convey
how much I care about you. Baby, I can't promise
I'll stay interesting forever. My looks will peel away someday
the same way that the flames curl the edges of my old portraits
when they curiously lick them, but I burned out long ago.
Your skeletons are packed like bags in my closet by my artwork.

free writing

I find it difficult to quantify the amount of wide-eyed hope
you cause my subconscious to prance around with.
She dances, fluttering from euphoria, tangled amidst
optimism that you paint on the future. Relax, you said.
There are moments where I admit that I want to apologize
for being a worrywart; the lesser regions of my cerebral
cortex gnaw at the base of my spine on bad nights,
and all I can do is tremble and hold you. Your skin is soft;
the warmth of your cheeks rub up against the nape of my neck.
Daylight will wash over us soon, darling.

My clumsiness seems to astound you occasionally.
You watch me stumble over condolences insincerely,
but I can promise nothing except the most earnest
desire to see you smile. I enjoy running my fingers
over the cracks that break on your cheekbones like dawn,
although I feel like it's been ages since I've seen
the light glimmering through your artificially mature,
sometimes cliche windows to the soul.

Occasionally, I wake up wondering if you're still there.
You exhale roughly and straighten up your back
in your sleep, stretching your spine so that I can tap
into the reservoirs of your disease. I want to run (away)
my tongue all over the abscesses and search vainly
for the cure within the muse of my soul, because
our toxins could write a beautiful self-destruction
worthy of a Graham Greene short story.
Today is a day where I find something tragic
about us written within the confines of a comedy.

ol' army

I choke on old habits like calling you 'babe'.
There are nights when insomnia plagues me
and the only salvation I can cling to are late night conversations
we have about theology on rooftops.
You get up early in the mornings to run, but you don't mind,
although you tell me you miss bearing the flag of your faith,
holding it above your head like some lost beacon for hope.
I am sure you miss tradition as badly as I do.
There are those among us too new and doe-eyed
to remember anything but construction tearing us down.

I have become accustomed to pacing your corridors
alone at night, staring out of windows that are barred
just in case someone decides to build character
through defenestration, but I must confess;
I am tired of watching what I love crumble before my eyes,
and there are days where I am tired of missing brotherhood,
but tonight, all we can content ourselves with
is setting this town ablaze with the sunrise.
So much for camaraderie.

(I know you can't help but wonder,
and I ask you to quell your fears; he treats me well.)
Though you may worry that he will break me,
not much can match the way your steely resolve
once grated against my willpower. While I value you,
I must confide in you that I no longer miss it.
I have outgrown your love in the same way the bricks
we used to walk under, hands intertwined, all eventually fall.
Until then, we can do nothing but part ways at Sully.