He had built the sun for me,
and carved the world for me.
The flowers in the fields were mine,
that he had planted for me and
my nose and my enjoyment.
The mountains were his love for me,
soaring above the earth,
cutting into space and time and above
anything I could ever give to him.
His scars were his pain that he had
bared for me and his tears were lakes
that had been cried for me; in thought
of me, in spite of me.
He cries for me.
He dies for me.
He begs for me.
He lies for me.
His world is me and his heart is me.
His destiny, his entropy, his fallacy
is all for me. His heart is debris
smashed by me. His eyes see for me.
His world stems from me, and
Everything he does is for me and mine.
From me our lives intertwine.
My life is his reason for living
and my heart is his hearts way
of beating. Hey eyes do not
open but for me and only
to see the face of me.
If I died he would cease to be and
if I stopped seeing he would be lost to me.
For he is here only for me and
the tragedy is the reality
that despite his love for me,
I am numb to his plea for loves
duality, insanity or affinity.
For whilst he clings to me for
vitality, I cannot find the ability
to love him as he does me. Instead
I watch numbly as he stares at me
and moves with me and laughs at me
through the ghostly glass between he and
me that has separated for eternity. Praying
daily that I will change and return the loving
sympathy that once I had for the man
in the object of front of me. Yet each day
he is more grotesque to me and I pray to
see the boy that once stood in this glass
and mirrored me.