Seven Carbon. Four Hydrogen. And, oh.

I did the one thing you’re not supposed to do. I know, but it worked. I let you go, just tossed you out like the night’s trash. Released you into space without a tether. And you know what I found out?

You come back to me like rubberbands against my wrist. Like a whip agaisnt my bare back. You’re spring loaded and you don’t disperse regardless if I push you down and try with fire and might to stamp you out.

Like an elctromagnetic storm, you collect energy and increase the negative charges between a hollow space, you, and me.

I can try to disregard your nails in my flesh, your teeth in my neck, your clamps on my skin. But you burn so hot and heavy that even as I’m stepping backward, I’m not giving in.

You do not disappear like fog or a storm pulled by wind. You are not a brush of spring rain that dusts the surface of my mud then drifts away. You are not some seed loafing, caught up by parasols and parachutes by the lightest of breezes.

Oh, no. You are sick sticky slick and you’ve stuck to me. I more than half-remember your drugged out, dragged down moments of desperation as I lay spinning drunk and passing out. Waking up to reaffirm with myself that you aren’t there, can’t be there, wouldn’t come back through here if you dared.

But in the window there’s this morning blaze of springtime sun and here you are — the blaze of my heart and the bane of my mercy, and why oh why do I forget that I created you in moments of stark reality? That your insanity is not the individual flash-in-a-nonstick-pan of your counterparts.

No. Your’s is a destruction bedeckled and sparkling like club lights and pop dance tunes. Your’s is a demise that’s easily danced and hummed to. Your’s is a beautiful decay and my heart is still sputtering to remember why I’d want to be let go.

Is this the other side of misery and suffering you talked about in my dreams? When I dreamed you up, did I think it’d end like this? Didn’t I know it had to?

I’m terrified, absolutely scared white blind to finish writing you.
Because only in those final notes will you really die down and quiet out and sink like stones through my thoughts. There, in the last sentence of the last page of you — you’ll really sputter, gutter, and flutter out to nothing but backgroud white noise. And I’ll feel nothing but my receptors tingling, waiting for a new wave to catch.

Yes, yes, Brandon told me that someone else would replace -that- love once it was gone.
But how the hell was I supposed to know it’d be you? And who, oh fucked up ember of my wavering heart, will/can/should or could replace you?

I’ll never know but your insides whisper just like Asher did that I won’t think twice to love them more. You’re right, of course. But I’m not ready yet to leave you, lose you, miss you.

So, don’t Ama-sa. Don’t remind me that one day you’ll be dead and we’ll be through. It is hard enough handling the truth without these moments going dim from knowing the future, too.

Just hold my hand and kiss my neck and tell me in your fucked up ways how you love me. And I’ll show you through the end of your life that I love you in return.

No breaks and no bends and no alterations from the course we’ve already, pre-destined, set.
So this is what being fate feels like. Miserable, after all.


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