"I am no prophet– and here's no great matter"

As if an apology within your arms is the only thing I'd need

Drive into my town, my house, back into my life

But instead I sit and stare at all these

pictures on a screen

Seeing everyone you've ever loved

And you there in between

Why do you smile like that

And look so glad to be alive

When I'm still here

without you in my life

and I wasted nights crying

Don't want anything any more

But damn if I don't think of you when I hear someone at the door

And I'm use to the drop my heart feels every single time

When I look and see that I ain't even

crossed your mind

Now I'm torn between two pulls of my love and my hate

Neither does any good when I won't ever see your face

Maybe someday we might one day maybe meet again

To be left waiting

Hoping that someone may come back for you

the way they did before

And I am Eurydice in the dark looking

forwards

To a figure that has disappeared

Hand open

And I don't quite know how to be loved

And all I want is to make you loved and dear

And I'm terrified

You terrify me.

Did you know that word comes from the Greeks? They use it in a not so good not so bad way. they called their gods terrifying and terrible. As in mighty and awe inducing and– not necessarily terrifying or terrible

But I am terrified of a lack of you.

Because I now understand what the poets and songwriters meant when they warned that love is a drug

And that means I'm sunk.

It's just

I don't love in half measures, darlin

Never been one to half ass

And I fear that I am just another

procrastinated paper to you.

That's my biggest fear.

That's always been my biggest fear.

That I will love and love until it consumes all of me

And you, the general one this time, will love me

in a glass half emptied manner of

amusement and condensation

And I'm scared the general will be may be

might become the vocative.

I just love you so much, darlin

I do.

Do you feel the same?

Am I the love story you always craved? Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe it's because I miss you.

Maybe it's because I'll be something like 1000 miles from you in just over two months for just over nine

But I am terrified.

And I do know why.

But it is foolish. Isn't it?

To fear love

Being loved

Having it

Losing it

Not being enough for it

I love you, dear.

I do.

But I don't know how to be loved.

I keep thinking if I make myself ugly enough maybe you’ll have to look at me. Why won’t you look at me.

I keep provoking you if I say something ugly enough maybe you’ll have to speak to me. Why won’t you speak to me.

You don’t speak to me. You must not love me.

You don’t look away. You don’t abandon me. You don’t look at me. You don’t speak to me. You don’t leave. You don’t love me. You won’t stop loving me.

I keep thinking your anger would be more comforting than your apathy. But it is your forgiveness. Your love. That spilts me inside out.

So hard

So loud

So much

I wish I didn't have emotions that feel

That come out

So brash

So vulgar

So much

I'm a Sunday morning cartoon

My heart tries to push out of my chest when you walk by

Or smile

Or laugh

Like a plant growing towards the sun

Or a magnet

I gravitate towards you while you pull me off balance

My intentions are clear even as my heart is guarded

How is it possible to both care and be caution all at once?

Would you explain it to me? I must have missed an episode.

My eyes contain mushroom clouds

The fire of a thousands suns

The transparency of my rage and my heart break

Achilles' wrath

While you follow behind me

Making apologies for my behavior

Like Hector's dead corpse

A physical reminder that my actions are

unjust despite my sympathetic justifications

My hurt is bug eyed and weepy

A tragic

Grotesque

theater mask

I sink in it

I flounder

Lower lip trembling in a way I cannot stop

I've tried

Like a broken clock of hyperventilation

(Hyper-fixation)

Gasping to get enough air

Only to get to the next need for the next breathe

My brains leaves my head and floats in space

You can see the gears turning the thick black smoke

Whatever is cooking is rotten

The glow of the bulb is too bright and it shatters

My face

My brain

My heart

They feel too much

I feel too much

and you're searching for every video and photo of your childhood dog just to hear them bark again, something you once lost you're temper about but now is so sweet. Why is it the things we valued least we remember tenderly. Perhaps it is the mundanity that is sacred although we will continually refuse to see it.

And you're 23 and you're friends are scattered to the winds, the nights locked in the library or the days spent reading the same articles 10 feet apart in offices that had more doors than walls it seemed, are the last few ripples from the dropped stone. They fade and lose their shape and the vibrancy of their color.

Was it really only yesterday? Did we truly love that hard in silence? How could I have missed it? How will I continue to miss it? And when you sit across/ in front/ behind/ me next will I remember to appreciate it? Or will it just be Tuesday? The grief of loss that is not loss but growth is startling in its constancy. It is a dull ache until it consumes in full. There are no answers to these questions.

You forget what I mean when I say pretty,

baby

When I say you are pretty I'm not lining you up

for ridicule or calling you vain

Not asking you to measure up your self next

to Gosling or Chalamet

only to always come to the conclusion you are lacking

When I say you're pretty, baby

I mean you're pretty like a

Van Gogh and a Caravaggio

You are pretty like a red bridge stretching

overwater lilies

Like the drips of a clock sticking puddling in my memory

Pretty like the Sistine Chapel

The pretty that sits in the space between

the hands of God and Adam

Pretty like the confounding contradictory

captivation of Mona Lisa's smile

Similes and Metaphors of the greatest artworks in the world

Curated by illogical time and sometimes tasteless fashion,

critics and skeptics,

devout scholars and demure sheep,

fad chasers,

and die-hearted defenders

Masses

Masses upon masses

But God only ordained one minister

to sit on this Earthly pulpit and appraise

Sit and admire

Sit

No, not sit

Kneel

with weak knees

before what stands

Be blessed with a magnificent sight

And find not a word could comprise

All that makes up you

Outside inside

Inside outside

So

Grasping at straws

Breathless and Speechless

May I invoke the adjective that should be placed

A lil to the bottom left of the frame

May it read

Title: You

Author: God

We think we do

We think we want it