I am never the first to know

But where do people like us go?

Oh my friend and oh my foe – you were there in my eye. An insect caught in the resinous love, and didn’t it harden to your cold heart, to your amber soul?

We were as friends, and fuckers, and snow on the morning grass, which I walked with bare feet for the sake of a few more words. Just a few more, and more, and – dare I ask why it began?

Where do we find ourselves, in a night’s warm glow of secrecy and follow-on, one thought to the next, hand over mouth and mouth over soul. I still don’t know your story, though you find yourself drawn back to mine, and it perplexes my eye as much as this thing I once knew for a heart. It’s become a stranger this year.

Still not ashamed to tear it ragged, to fly on the wind for others. But I understand its presence less and less … and I wonder if you feel the same.

There is strength and blood and fine wine and shivering darkness, and wanting more and giving less, and treading old paths that I shouldn’t have carved out; shouldn’t have let myself be led down, with a hand that keeps pulling away into the dark, white will ‘o the wisp, and –

You won’t come back. It’s not a path I know well.

I strike, and stave off the words, and in public, keep my silence – which breaks here, on a wave of splintering words.
Love … where do you walk to, that they and I might not follow?

Keep the streets for me. I’ll keep a blue rose for you.

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