With Care of a Psychotic
The way that you squeal,
during times that you are pressed
sends cosmic shivers and vibrations up my spine and down deep into my cerebral cortex.
The way that you feel— as I caress your slender neck and
grab hold of your statuesque shoulders
allows me to connect with something greater than myself,
if only for a transient, yet totally truthful moment.
I have broken you in an embarrassing fit of rage
And pieced you back together with the care of a psychotic until you were perfect.
I could tune you in, turn you up and you would turn me on
to the ethereal om that filled room when you sang.
I intended to write a poem
about my favorite guitar, but
I can’t help but think of how I miss your smile and those
Beautiful. Bold. Brown. Eyes.
And how, in their reflection,
I could see what truth is—
how I could see the shortcomings of my self.
I never intended to always be so cruel, but over and over again I guess I heard the same song playing in my head and each had a middle and a beginning, but I could never foresee the end…
Now I’m starting to think I’m simply incapable of maintaining a healthy relationship because, in my head, there are too many things that buzz and not enough things that blend.