You have just said what I have
at one point
feared that everyone I've met would
at one time or another
ask of me

He cries soundlessly to pillows
or is it my imagination
or is it that I've just been doing it for him
and making it seem like it was his idea

He's jobless, aimless, hairless, heirless
for what a pitiful thing to call offspring
and what a shapelessly ugly idea is parentage
I agree for the sake of civility, yes, "he's got it made"

I have just done
once more
one of the things that I'd promised some being
but not necessarily myself
that I would never again do

His nights are reruns
to lure thoughts deeper than the iceberg of his subconscious
or is it that I've become my favorite version of him
only by sacrificing the best parts of my worst self
the only self there is

rather splutter, think he's somewhere drowning
than smile and he's somewhere frowning,
parallel pestilence, pain's matrimony
rather bitter coherence and glacial irony

I don't think you can ever realize
that you have just asked about that one thing
so damnably casually
that never leaves my mind
and never stalks passionless