Come back.

I was reading Cold Mountain this morning. And Ada's phrase popped out. "Come back to me, is my request." How powerful. Even more so when written by her. I decided jot something down at 10 in the night (like I have anything better to do, like sleeping). Even so, such inspiration has let me write my own situation. A little dark, like Poe's work. But I cannot mask it in literature. It would be a travesty.

I see silence.

Silence that spreads along the cold, white-washed walls, unnoticeable
At first, like a thin coat of Vaseline.


Then, as expected, its spikes pierce through the ice concrete.
Slimy, Greasy, and Ugly.
Unmistakably there. Proud. Dripping with red blood.
I cannot bear to uphold a neutral façade, while my veins turn black and molten.


But, I know I have to.

I watch you like I’ve watched a million paintings.
Muted, at first. Latched onto its sleeves, a bold crescendo of infatuation.
I feel pricks on my skin, and joy, and provocation.


Just like that one time when I saw Monet, a still-life through misty eyes.
Harsh silence falls through the cracks,
Packing salt onto my unhealed injuries.
I cry. Like I have cried a million times before.
And I realize I never can compare.


I am like Van Gogh. Thick paint across my soul.
Our names may mangle in sloughs of meaningless words,
But thick moments rip us apart.
Come back to me. Come back to me, is my request.

I don't even know if this is even worth thinking about. But writing it just brought a new wave of emotions. Honestly, I don't know if I even feel better. I know I'm supposed to. But, I don't.

Peace out, boy-scout.
R.