You left me here, thinking, with words and words and words in my mouth. All the ears are stoppered and I build up like a catastrophe, but you are still putting the words into my mouth and I still have no one to burden with them. You make my eyes turn towards my Love, towards the sun, towards the dying sun. The one that turns blood red as it slips surreptitiously beneath the glassy sea. One by one, speckles and spots appear that little children and hopeless men make wishes on and pray to and try to interpret, hoping to find something more than themselves there. Something more than the poor excuse for the use of a life there. The sun is gone and yet my Love remains and I am grateful, but damn you for making me ever suffer a moment of sorrow in her presence. You’ve done to me the only thing she is entirely capable yet entirely unwilling to do. Damn you.
And before I curse you and your enthralling words one last time, my Love reaches towards me. A gentle stroke on the shoulder and I know that tragedy will befall me, but when it does, I am not so fallible as others to find the deepest pit to die in. She may hold me just above the floors made of broken glass and tug the threads of my worn out collar as the temptresses beckons me just off the edge of New York City skyscrapers, but she will never let me suffer so much as a scratch. Never so much as a twitch or quiver in my straining muscles.
Damn her for holding me from the greatest source of peace man may ever find, but damn you for having me consider it in the first place. Damn you and bless you.
My hearts beats.
My soul rests.
My chest rises and falls with Life and Love and all the things that the jaded men of suffering scoff at.
You give me reason to weep, and the awareness to Live a Life fulfilled and content.
Bless you.
(A lovehate note to Neil Gaiman.)
Photo by Gabriel Garcia Marengo on Unsplash
December Rose 
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