Apologies for the audio not being great. I was awkwardly filming outside a hotel, TRYING TO MAKE IT WERK. Next week, a new video. Maybe? Yeah? Nah? Friends marathon at my house?
You stood upright perfectly.
Perhaps this was something British boarding school taught you.
Like you wore a layer of armor,
A constant shield to show others.
Just sat there like my favorite chair
And I would fold myself in you.
Rest my arms along yours,
You’d kiss the freckles on my cheek
and whisper vulnerability.
But this time, you did not move.
Did not touch me back.
Not so much as a “Hello, good morning! I’ve missed you” kiss.
A rigid tree in place of a man I was seconds away from loving
And like a sudden drop in Los Angeles weather,
You became unfamiliar.
And the last thing I could figure out was how to fix the heater.
I spoke three words, and untangled my hands from yours before saying the third.
And so you did.
Now I was the statue.
My cemented legs protecting my fragile ego
Because my head was screaming,
“Please don’t leave me.”
I thought of you as a piece of art.
And everyone could see.
You walked down the street an exhibit of perfect brush strokes,
As if you had been constructed by a sculptor,
The way your body was built with precision
Nothing was a mistake.
And people flocked to see this masterpiece.
What two artists had created,
But all these museum dwellers could see is the final product,
I wanted to know it all.
What your creators thought when they envisioned your canvass,
I wanted to be Persephone.
I did not fear your underworld.
Deep, charcoal secrets that you think make you less beautiful
were what made me want to hold you even more.
But I could not seduce you into loving yourself.
I foolishly thought if I picked you up enough times,
Told you it was okay to not always have such perfect posture,
You would relax into peace.
You would give me a piece.
And in return I would give you three.
I didn’t ask for fairness, you simply made me feel.
You made me feel white-hot lava bubbling from within,
Searing a path along my ivory skin.
I’m not just saying you made me hot,
but you left a trail of everywhere that you had been.
Drank whisky from my collarbone.
Scratched passion along my thighs.
We painted Van Gogh’s Starry Night
And I have to believe that it meant something,
even if it only meant something to me.
But you Picasso’d yourself into a picture I didn’t recognize.
A gallery you no longer wished for me to view.
I hope she finds you beautiful,
In a way that almost sickens me.
in some way,
I still do.