This is a quiet death, my dear.
Muted colors slowly turning to the
grey they had been toying with for so long
now.
I never wanted it to end like this,
but how else is it supposed to end?
Should we go out on a bang?
One last hurrah for all the novels we wrote, for
all the times your tears became engraved on my skin like
poetry, like the scars on your arm you try to hide like
the cuts on your thigh you try to cover up from me like
the night I screamed at you and told you
that when you hurt yourself, you hurt me too.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
You never asked me to be perfect but
you did ask me to be honest and
I guess I’m trying to follow through
on that promise.
This isn’t working.

What a beautiful machine it is
Shitting brilliance all over the world we roam
Vomiting out galaxies with new stars and histories and lovely things but
It sits on my chest and
it’s slowly crushing my chest and
I just don’t know if my chest can hold up much longer.

No matter how brilliant we are, no one man was meant to hold the weight of two forever.
No one man can eat for two, can run for two, can think for two, can dream for two.
I feel selfish, but I have to think about myself and
my arms and my slowly cracking chest
I mean, my now splintered chest
I mean, my soon to be crushed chest
that houses your semi-golden heart and
your further-moving bones and
your ever-touching fingertips that
reel me in like thunder and
lay into me like lightning and
Make my life look like a scene from a movie that I have wanted to watch ever since I could remember.
.
.
.
Goodbye.