Devastation (a poem for jeremy)

Seeking permission to blame me
for the miles of files
filled with memory -

hand in hand.

Small, and devastating.

An autograph
to sustain me,
like a suicide victim
jumping...

flying for the slightest of instances

and then falling.
Balling my eyes out, as though
this were a break (unexpected)

devastating.

Seeking permission to cross the river (wild,)
and (raw) - I laugh, seeking the thought
of things that you never saw.

And, the man that I desire
stands behind walls. Separate.
Near the open windows.

Are you going to jump?

No, how foolish of me.

Do you plan to fall?

O! how hellish, the devastation.

And the money? The 96 hours
of slavery. The livery of islands
were we are meant to stand
entwined like vines, tilted
through the shadow, to grow
upon the layer of flesh that confines us.

Do I love you?
Love, is loveless. - I’ve always known it.
Always felt it, though
run, bedazzled from it.

Bejeweled with your nudity
between my legs.

Crowning. We are like children,
mining the earth for truth. And
even though I was told that it
would be like this, I did not believe
the salty words, spit, from the
tongue of doughy faced already-liars.

And the money?
The poem, I pulled from your fingers
like a drug, desperate to keep the
devastation close at hand.

Hand, in hand.

But you don’t speak;
once a revolutionist,
catering to a nation of small conglomerates;
falling...

before I fell into your hands
like words - hands that spill, and pull
across a river of guitar strings,
like a plow scaring itself
in the name of growth.

Agriculture -
perhaps we were both children
together- and not just devastated adults.
Perhaps, you held me close
in another form of existence
were life was filled with knowledge -
where we, ready to deface the world
laughed lightly.

All I hear is cruelty now-a-days.

But I said once, that this shell
was not my name. This existance
was not my claim to any form
of pain that I have felt.

Softening - like a tombstone,
stiff and throbbing against me.

And the money?
And I miss you.

Then, you walk into the room
in a black shirt and jeans, sit,
not beside me, but near enough.
We talk: silence.

“I‘m angry with you.”
“I know.”

And then the stillness; a portrait
of me waving goodbye to you
in the dark, where only our hands
are lighted through the street lamp haze.

And then the bitterness.
The devastation of you
standing... jumping... flying...

And I fall.