turbulance.

pursuit is frivolous

self centered

mean.

come to me,

let me

stop counting to 100

let me

stop chasing you around the backyard

let me

tag you before you reach base.

give to me a penance

your love

that once we shared but

now you hoard away:

water for the coming doom,

blankets on a cold winter’s night,

a fat kid’s candy.

I recognize so little

my blurry vision of what

once was crystal:

who you’ve become in

your effort to dissect

who I am;

cutting away the obvious flaws

and throwing

the rotten pieces

back in my face.

This was us-

you and me,

a joint endeavor,

or team work,

or an idea brainstormed

while high on

my words,

your dreams and

a couple of lines of whatever made you feel

this.

So it came as quite a shock

when the soft seductive call of

Sirens

convinced you to

lock your doors up tight,

let your demons

have free reign of the place

while I pounded on the gate

with bruised fists of desperation.

now, more than ever,

pursuit is frivolous

self centered

mean.

come

to

me;

let

me.