Dear Wristlav,

go with it,

It seems that I’ve been given up to temptation,

led into the slaughterhouse, making of a king’s crown,

bleed out, ripple out like a stone sunk into our bitter lake of memory,

painting images, mirrored like your father, but so much more majesty,

encased in demonic agency, you whisper, “Oh I am not like you…” as you shed your skin to reveal his bone.

I recognized you at once,

cigarettes empty in your lungs, waterfall run down into your smoke-pit valley,

someone did the most, and the ghosts cling to our fragility, echoing all we swore to hide.

It goes away, these guilty wants and needs, subside, recede into our kingdom,

Don’t you get, don’t you get that you’re the last of it?

The final one, how could I ever swallow all of you,

All of your burdening dreams and power, I could never build from it the way I need.

I miss you as distance sinks its teeth into our thin frames, and sucks us dry,

just like those lovers that beam in your eyes for two seconds and go out like a dirty flame.

I can say the world is on your shoulders, and I can feel it on me, your weight,

and the thin frame of us,

do not lose it in a lost cause, we found home once more.