The Book of Weston

I am in motion, life unfolding, and then

she slips her way in

(or did i invite her?)

and everything stopped.

Soon it was as if she'd always been there.

Familiar like a face from a dream,

but in the blacks of her eyes,

I see only future, our future together.

She has me completely.

Then I can't remember before her.

I fear I would not exist without her,

and she says she feels the same.

We ensconce ourselves in my apartment.

Our passion becomes our entire world -

intoxication, layers of pleasure

that overwhelm, sedate.

And years later it makes me dizzy

to think what a prison we'd built

and called it paradise.

Every time we make love, I feel a piece of me

seeping out, a hollowness and a relief.

Subtle connections like tiny hooks

establish between us,

and I feel myself draining throughout the day,

even during the rare quiet moments

when she is not by my side.

Is she okay? Is she safe?

Are we okay? Are we safe?

Is this what I want, what she wants?

Draining, draining.

I lose myself; I am pallid.

I no longer appear in the bathroom mirror

or in the mirror of my mind,

which is no longer private.

She does nothing wrong; she also suffers.

She exists, and I am drained.

I do nothing wrong; I also suffer.

I am drained, and she exists.

We live like host and parasite

feeding on false hope,

the spiderweb of optimism,

traversing a curved universe,

a loop disguised as a line.

Her eyes are black holes,

unavoidably attractive, pulling me

down into a core that stretches

and tears me apart until

there's nothing left to give.

But one day, although it feels wrong,

I begin to steal moments

away from her gravity

that gather like pebbles into a mountain,

and with this old strength I start

to sever the connections, which sting,

but with every detachment, something returns,

like a burst dam in reverse.

The last bloody connection is cut,

and I shut her out, and it is like

a great storm has subsided,

and there is deep quiet and loneliness

that feels full. It is over.