There’s a masochistic streak in me

That wants to run to a crushing familiar;

To look through that rose-colored prism

And see a version of us

That never made it outside my head;

To rewrite every memory

And give you mercy,

Just to feel that forged calm

Hollywood waves in front of me.

To give you every chance

To be someone other than who you are.

But the prism cracks under too much pressure,

And you along with it.

My baroque vision of you is bleeding, my dear,

And the wound fails to be cauterized.

Are you pouring out of me,

Or am I letting myself go?

It burns all the same

In this melancholic alchemy,

This burning amalgamation of logic and spirit;

This split of knowing better and not caring;

This call to find warmth inside a fire;

To take salt and dig into the wound

Just to feel that something is still there.

My loss, just as much you as me,

Fixed in a hemorrhaging equinox,

This crushing familiar,

I run to.