My raven couldn’t wait a second more,
ignoring my door,
rapping on my insecure mind,
finding routes inside,
tearing out the safe affirmations I had acquired,
since he last came knocking.
Darkness there and nothing more,
after the raven was done,
ripping down the reminders I’d left,
all across my life,
of the ways I was treasured,
the ways I was not measured,
in how often others think of me,
but HOW they think,
and WHAT they think,
because they do.
The raven smiles, and says they don’t,
but they do,
like I have often been,
was an unwelcome guest,
now tapping at my chest,
a forgotten rhythm,
that was once etched in my memory,
the saddest song,
but one I could never skip.
“For love is just a junior high version,
one way excursion.”
but soon delusional,
live and in concert,
plays the blues on my bruised ego.
“I’m sure that I am old enough
to fly alone.”
I’m never alone,
atoning for the sin of making someone else the sun,
blinding and essential,
but I am the same as always,
half asleep in a dark room,
desperate to journey back to dreams,
but seen by a spectre,
smug ebony bird,
who smiles and beguiles me with gossip.
Tea at Two PM,
by the window sill,
with an empty notifications screen,
as my sole companion sits upon my shoulder.
I nod in agreement,
despite not knowing what he means,
such is my undying devotion.
Devoted to all manner of things,
and all kinds of disasters,
desiring peace but finding pleasure in never being free to forget,
the shade of blue,
that I painted my study,
the two of hearts I keep framed on my desk,
a broken ruler, dressed in yellow and green tape,
a flurry of texts I look upon fondly,
my Leo Lenore.
The raven says,
and I’m not even angry,
in a sublime fashion,
planning trips to paradise,
where I can bask in the glow of someone I call my burning sun.
The raven lights a match.