Tantalizingly separate. Coffee-jerked knees and knotted Persian rug of nauseous nervous shrugs against the people drifting. Happy, hurt, but always living. What am I, then? Caught between the therapy and a past I'm not remembering? Why can't I accept a hand across my back without trackmarks showing the affect of loves fingers lacking the strength to break the shell I hate at lengths and need to keep your image clean. As not to distort the shorted lives that ran across mine as sharpened knives. The absent mother, the distanced lover. The parts of us that land like butterflies, leaving shudders of vultures hundreds of thousands of times their size, wracking me endlessly and leaving me empty. Or feeling that way with so much resenting. I'm jumping at corners and hardening masks. Painting them thicker with sicker demands. To pull from you a stranger fruit, acceptance through my twisted means, I've seen it done, though descended from whatever hell they made of broken glass that tapes itself again, reclaims my past. I'm healing and hurting at the same fucking pace. Writing with an eraser, placed her in the middle of circles and diagrams of what I am, but men of sand don't last in tides. The chemical rides of new strides in deciding an end. Of me, or her...

Is this what I want my life to mean?
If you let it go, you let it go.
You let it go alone.

You found me cut and drawn to lines,
The product of some better time.

We found our hearts in each other,
We found our heart in one another.

Shaky hands drawing lines in sand so crookedly, she only laughs at me. There's a reason for it, buried beneath the scores of crooked bows and dented horns I bore to microphones and splatter-speak. Seeking self acceptance in the folds of syllables describing the life of hers that mine is firing potshots into. Grinned through teeth and bent to fit lists of symptomologies. The subtle critique of culpability written into my life as prodigy. Of learning hands fulfilling roles that my heart still burns, it's fingers cold around the flesh that you know is warm, it's yours. But to me, of course, it's wires shorted and hoarded by columbine paradigms. Mine is mine. Reasons for trying lines against myself, a reason for hurting when lurking in memory is the stump of a tree sinking in mud it made with the tears shed in shade under monuments of being much less than I needed to be. To support these fantasies, wrapped in these syllables re-saying in numerous terms the problems that never were mine, but were hers.

Is this what I want my life to mean?
If you let it go, you let it go.
You let it go alone.

You found me cut and drawn to lines,
The product of some better time.

We found our hearts in each other,
We found our heart in one another.