Bye, for Good

The chill of the too-soon morning grips jaws of half-defeated tendons and bones.

You shift, like some epileptic vision, and strobe from disjointed smiles and sighs. My precious specter, my loathed past - it is one and the same.

You bought a dozen white roses, parsoned out to a trinity of girls who never tasted your name like I have. Regret has the tinny taste of licking a penny, puckered on pinnacles and precipices of pity.

You tell me that I' m your pestilence.

Cheshire grin from ear-to-ear, do you even hear me when I play bloodcurdling death cries from dried up, calloused vocal chords? I play to the deaf and blind, you are both and not enough at the same time.

Cheers to the man who reveres in lackluster, lovelorn fallacies, I commend you on your too ripe rapacity for ardor.

To me, you'll always be the one who got away with murder.

And as you churn her, turn her into some semblance of half-baked, half-truth you will realize that, honey, she IS me, what you wanted but couldn't have, fully.

I know my face haunts you in the absence, in-between times of those wannabe rhymes you sing to her, so thoughtless and formless they sift through air, weighted down by my shoelace ties, wrapped around your too-quick fingers.

Who is marionette and puppet player here?

I will be witness to the distance and the deed that you have forsaken, my fairweather friend.

You will forget her name and find me flying, face first into facsimile, cut and copied from the cusp.

I loved the idea, but not you.

No truce, just truth.