a poem, for your troubles.

My bed is an ocean-
waves of blue cotton and liquid layers of wool
stretch out from my body,
surrounding, spreading for minute-miles in each direction
while I float atop them,
alone beneath the salt-grey of my bedroom ceiling
And the balmy pastel blue, that is my sky

Tentacles of polished ebony pulse from every shadow,
slink noiselessly along the hardwood floor
slowly-slowly-and my eyes are globes of marble
still and sightless,
centered on the impossible image of your face.

Reflected in the paint above me-
grainy and dull, are eyes-
Full as my own, and cheeks, that lying smile
false strength radiating from each tortured pore-
your healthful flush was stolen from a bottle,
and within the firm white of your teeth,
there is rot.

Crimson tides course the canyons of my body
as I lay, heat dripping from tired flesh to the mattress below.
It warms, and swells, and begins to spread,
drawing me with iron gentleness into its core.
Even as I sink and ropes of black swarm up to choke me,
my eyes are on yours,
gazes locked in fatalistic embrace, hard-edged and bitter.
I'm indebted to this moment

You drown me here, in my own longing-
your eyes are cold: they do not know me.
I need to hear you scream, voice raised in prurient protest
I want to see you weep, hot tears of shame scalding leathered flesh;
I pray to know you breathe, precious life beating still within your withered shell,
But there is nothing. Your portrait remains as it was,
unmoving, sepia shades of hush.

And yet, I forgive you, and with it comes
exquisite release, as the blackness fades
and the shackles loosen on my wrists.
I forgive because I know that
you would not notice either way.
My forgiveness could no more touch you than my hatred, or my love.