Half-paradise lost

I walked before crawling; I was told
many years later that sad people do.
I lost before fighting; I found out
many years later that sad people do.
I was sad when I was happy and I never knew
how close to the core of the Earth my heart stopped
when I started my descent.
“I drew my own eyes and they were sad,” I said.
“They were sad, my love, and I was crying.”
He was quiet, buried deep inside our mutual self
as one crashes in a mattress of lust and love
respect and the epitome of absolutism.
I failed before trying; I was told
in the mirror, mere minutes later
that cunts like me do. I laughed.
I’ve gone and spoiled the perfection
of unabashed symmetry.
I’ve gone and killed the legacy
I was to leave my children.
They will now have to gift themselves
to the world who moulded them.
Martyrs on the crosses of boxes
they tick at the doctors.
I fucked before I knew how to love.
I wish this was a lie, but I was told
many many years later
that old souls do.
Whether this stands as true
or falls into the lies I’ve been told
remains to be decided.
Peter was a sassy little white collar
standing there and judging me.
He told me in no simple words,
in the convoluted asswiped way
that saints have
that I was tripping balls.
When the sun set for the first time in my memory
I was young enough to wonder
and old enough for my eyes to tear up with the strain.
Someone grabbed my hand in the dark
I like to think it was him, but it’s been
one point seven fuckloads of seconds
since he stopped breathing
and started resting in an urn.
It’s been equally as long
since I’ve stopped living
and carried on as a shell.
I feel tired; the way tired feels
when it crawls up your arms
like an army of ticks waiting to bite
like a battalion of vicious termites
clawing at my wooden limbs.
I was tired before I woke up; I was told
many later that sad people are.
“I felt my veins today,” I said.
“They were like the branches of the oaks
I care so much about. They spread
like tendrils of the love I have for you.”
He smiled. I hated him those days.
“Do you know if you knot your veins together
you might have enough roads
to walk to the depth of my soul and back?”
“I’d drive,” he said. I laughed.
We fucked that night. We fucked slowly
the way lovers do when they’re written about.
We fucked in the middle of the bed,
where there was enough room around us
to build a home.
I was happy before I knew what happiness was;
I found out many years later
when it slid through my fingers
(the way time does)
that I can never get it back.

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