I blame you.

For being an almost
The almost –that almost
Not a story, just a song.

You were my description
The books, the thoughts,
the love for violent minds

The Woods and the cold
The solitaire wonder of one’s head
The favorite novel.

The taste of scotch and the random people
The fireplace hearing
a mouthful of silent messages

Your eyes,
your eyes.

Your big, powerful,
beyond any borders
much absent
heart.

Sometimes between my sheets
and your desperate hugs
it would ask for help. Sometimes.

Hard and dry but still alive
and unhopefully imprisioned
in your mind

Not allowed to wander nor cry
Not allowed to feel for it’s own
fearful of breaking the already torn

It would ask for help. Sometimes.

And there’s your almost.
that’s the yourself that never won

I loved your enslaved heart, I hated YOU.
the sanguineous, the butcher
The lone. The lost.

he who was-and-was-not-there
he who would ask for help, sometimes.
not to me, not this ride
he’s got something that don’t belong.

For the mind has had it’s victory
in a hug that said goodbye
in a kitchen, some last day
The last time he asked me why.