I’ve become receptive to any piece of endearment,
As if getting you to talk to me is some sort of achievement.
The curve of your lips, the forming words swirled into art,
The muse from the Louvre turns my oeuvre into all,
To consume what you do, with every molecule I control,
Then to being consumed… and then to being controlled.
I’ve learned that timing is a tool that you brandish,
Practiced brainwashing of patience duly examined,
Adept at adapting, pervasive detachment,
Waiting at the riverbank’s edges for the prey, you attacked.
I took what I had left, to make a full cloak,
A wolf near the willow tree, and a sheep in wool clothing,
Didn’t need a disguise, I saw you coming a mile away,
Meters turned to inches, maybe I wanted the pain.
If I say I’m happy, there should be an asterisk given.
I gaze past your position, until days past come and visit,
Make happiness vivid, gray bandage, incisions,
That’s why executioners wear masks,
Guillotine unconfirmed, stared at the Medusa-like glare,
And into stone, I was turned,
The same stone you built bridges with just to burn.