Your promise of joy is not enough for me.
It’s a shallow mirage,
a false front to convince yourself,
and all of your wasted love,
when we gather together,
trading attempts at acknowledgement and understanding,
offering gifts of gratefulness and material sacrifice,
a promise of decency,
a mockery of our true lives,
our true hearts,
our sleeping will.
The panic and the pressure of preparing to please you brings out the worst in me–
it brings out the worst in everyone.
The streets are mad and mean,
the floor is a disgusting mess of disregard and concealed hostility.
We laugh and sing amidst it all,
spreading a message of joy,
desire in bursts to proclaim genuine sincerity,
and we almost believe it ourselves,
in our very hearts–
but we are drunk.
My gift to you.
I never meant to say it,
to push my finger into that jelly of uncertainty,
stain you with fear,
I love you, you know,
and you don’t believe,
you abandoned me at the first sensation of honesty,
like a thief exposed,
you ran and hid, scared of yourself and my eyes.
This is my gift to you.
An expression of faith,
you seek the lines in my smile,
a nicely tied bow–
and here it is for you, my love,
not so far away at all.
You run instead.
I watch, confused,
thinking your name in a loud yell,
it comes out awkward and impure,
fading into the distant drums,
an echo of a heartbeat.
This is for you,
the song goes something like when we knew love,
when we waited for the night to fall and take us in its whispering wings,
and you never did remember
because you weren’t paying attention,
swirling like a mad breath of fresh air,
lost and leaving inside yourself,
drowned out by your own voice,
blinded by your own face,
you were always somewhere else.
This is my gift to you,
across the river of light,
I can’t see,
but I want to feel safe reaching out blind to your hands.
Do you understand me?
You look so foreign.