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.


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