i was still caught up in the beginning as she was sketching the grand farewell
it became hard to enjoy the small things when they were all blown out of proportion
it was a thousand tiny deaths, a game of self mutilation, where the rules were arbitrary at best
she called it love
i called it bewilderment
together we called it quits
in the end that was still the beginning, when old hat was still new car smelling
we aborted, ejected, immolated every stray thread on the off chance permanence would grow
we made softly whispered hate between the silk sheets of dead handed sloppy gropings
she called it heaven
i called it dead on arrival
together we drew fresh scars
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
“I was still caught up in the beginning while she was sketching the grand farewell” brilliant. i sometimes find it hard to read your achingly real words. I have walked in the rain with headphones, climbed mountains and felt the slurp of quicksand as I try to pull my feet forward, sometimes I just can’t go there it is too painful. You are able to encase the collective howl of humanity with your words.
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Your comment is a beautiful poem in itself. I don’t know I deserve such words. But I will gladly take them. Thank you. I am humbled.
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Great
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thank you.
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