You Can’t Go Back

Idle twist with benefits, one, two, three. Desires that take thorns through skin, but never bleed. How many feelings does it take to get to the center of my soul? The world many never know. I may never know. It’s a secret that nobody knows.

Icicles form in summer skies dripping from my eyes. I am cold, and warmth took a holiday. Yet, I burn.

You can never go back. Ever. Back is a nuclear holocaust wrapped in plastic, so it’s toxic and can’t breathe, and skin ripples, and tears pour into wine glasses blood red so everyone can have one.

I revolve around a barycenter between me and the idea of you. Maybe it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had, but it seemed like a good one at the time. Shut up. Stop. Let me bring the center back inside myself and put it between my head and heart again.

Poetry Prose

Mysterious Person Singular

Your eyes, and you are so unsure. You, singular.
We’re unsure.
I’m uncertain of any given moment, any given time, any given motive or meaning. But I hope this helps.

When I fly, and the drink cart comes around, I don’t ask for water, or carbonated beverages. I always ask for tomato juice. The reason is that when you ask for a carbonated beverage or water, they pour you half a can over ice, and save the rest for the next person. But people rarely order tomato juice. When I order that, they always give me the whole can. It could spoil if they risk keeping it, and no one orders it. I get it all to myself.

You are that. You, mysterious person singular. Maybe no one else wants you, or asks about you. But I do. I want all of you. I want to experience every bit of you, all I can, before you disappear, and you will. Before someone or something takes you away, and they will. I want to be up in the clouds, enjoying you, knowing you, knowing that you’re all mine for that given moment, that given time, no motive, perhaps no meaning other than mutual enjoyment.

I want to be the only one who holds you.