Maybe it's the sky.
Maybe it's the moon.
Maybe it's because I
tend to be shy,
but I can't help
but feel separated
from the emotions
I hear scratching
at my door.
I was with you
on the floor
of a decrepit mind,
but we didn't care,
all we did was hold
each other, and breath
waiting for time
to leave,
I'm still here,
but you've gone
away
to play
one day,
I might see
your face again,
not in dream
but in reality;
I'll think, whatever
did I see in us,
whatever did I imagine,
to replace what was
concretely unfathomable,
a simple rose,
tried to stand
in a hurricane,
but the tempest
tore me to shreds
and I am now
nothing but
a pale reflection
of oil in water
twisted, self-absorbed
and multi-faceted
by choice,
but lacking
something others
know as love,
which I don't
share with anyone
because
I tend to
hide behind
a facade,
a barricade
of stone,
a twisted
metaphor
calling me
home,
with the angels
subliminal,
terminally
enthroned
in a hidden
world of magic
and myth
as well as
blood
and bone,
and I always
seem to be
alone.