From the Negative Side

My problem is that I like and like that become consumed; go down without a fight. I want to cry and lie beside you at night and watch as the sun disappears in a dance of light beams — twilight. In my dreams I see you touch me in my sleep as if you want to keep me there so you can always have me in a moment when I’m at peace. You whisper with your kiss and through even the gentle kicks of your feet when you sleep, I see the fire of feistiness with which I fell so hard and fast for.

You don’t know this yet but I bet I could tell you of each and every instant when the sun cast its light on that one spot on your neck that I loved to peck. Yes! I stare so much at you that I know how such a detail of inconsequence about mere unification and separation of flesh is important.

I can explain in vivid detail the rough number of breaths you take in an average minute. When you shake your head I can tell when you really mean the No or if it’s a poorly-hidden, unworded Yes. I know you because I fell into a crevice that is deeper than the crease that parts your breasts. I feel you because you are the best that I will forever regret; too good for a man far from comparative — infinitive or less.

You know that time we spoke for hours about your dreams? Of the future you foresaw for you and me? I died more and more inside as your eyes flickered with so many lanterns of functions we could attend side-by-side. I died because I knew that hope lies. I died because maybe I would leave you that night, or, as I have now, left you for not being right.

I feel so inadequate that I wish I could live celibate in a god-forsaken place worthy of such an apostate. I wish I could tear out this heart of an ingrate I have allowed to sit in me and brood to no chick-ly avail. Or maybe I just wish your existence wasn’t so phony and I so lonely, hey!

From the Negative Side,

Evans Campbell.
Minus the Bride

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