When a Text Becomes a Poem and You Are Now Utterly Exposed

I’m thoroughly bummed out about the idea of you leaving.
Gah.
Uneasy uneasy.
This will cartwheel in my brain for awhile.
I obviously cheer for your well-being on any capacity.

Impermanence is the way, but you’re so brief with it, as if permanence could take hold.

That is a folly that fluffs up your starched white sleeves.
You may as well let impermanence take its course
And not rush it along coarse deserts of discomfort
Where habit keeps you
Setting picnics
Where you lean against the tree
Forcing stupor
Forcing wakefulness
Despising the moving clouds for being in you
And making you their rain filled
Bitch.

You are
soft
Sad runner boy
And you look good
Behind your smoke screen
And your tears and your wine bottle
And your hands in flour being whisked with the salt from your face.

The string that holds you up
Was fractured
Like a well loved book
And now it takes all of your strength
To stand.

Your well is empty
And, no I don’t want to refill it
I promise.
But you don’t subscribe to
The water maker either
And you hate the clouds that are in you
And you won’t bring your hand
To your mouth
Or inch away from the cliff
Where you enjoy your mulled wine
Your tear filled dough
Your trepidation
Your sweet vertigo.

Death becomes you.
And yet, you are very much alive.

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