Our love was passionate, perfect, and completely fictional.
In delirium tremens I may pretend that it was more
Than somnambulent electric signals firing through my glia.
I can recall the exact moment we met,
The metacarpal crush of hand about hand,
But now an amalgamation of archetypal heroes
Has produced five weeks of glory
Followed by half a decade of disappointment.
A crisis of faith cut with jigsaw and hemorrhaging blood
Rolls past the viewfinder like tumbleweed
As each generation is in its turn drowned
In its own especial pool of tears.
Trapped writhing in the straitjacket of your memory
I feel a fever coming on,
Burning up everything I've ever wished for that cannot be mine.
Yes, as in a forest fire everything is destroyed,
Every hope and dream,
Leaving behind only the indiscernible ashes of time.
In disgust I toss the book of our love into the infinite landfill,
For whatever author penned it
Clearly means no less than to torment me until I give in to the pain
And pass out in a spectacular orgy of unconsciousness,
Sending me to where I would at last be reunited with my dead ancestors,
A place where everything we want might be ours,
Our eyes seeing but black in every corner.