Roused by a stiff, stale air
pressing in like the bends
a hospital bed; a prison cell
you came to me like a scalpel
two-faced, three heads
that makes Six: this must be hell.

I've been churned over, remapped, flipped rightside-back by home surgeries to keep me shut away from you. I've spent countless days and sleepless nights, stitching closed the curtains that play with your phantom breeze flirtatiously, taking my jealousy out with a bonesaw scotch. The liver shakes when the heart aches, but it's just another damage on this canvass brain unwound for yards. It's become a football pitch of sorts, soil fed with so many headless graves for variants of myself, buried and unburied, all pushing daisies, counting petals of 'love me, love me not'.
Even or odd, I've still found loss. 

I could write you ten thousand ballads, and it might never be worth the right kind of cologne. It might have never been worth one fuck in the dominican, the right kind of muscle, the jawline of a craggy neanderthal, the intelligent frame--all places we could have gone if I could have afforded them, but I can never buy the shares to your whim in time. 

I could climb any mountain but you'd decide it was far too quaint for full-time living, lacking the buzzing metropolice life. I could sell everything on my back, in my back, around my back, buy a minimalistic cathedral of eight hundred square foot taste, but by then the novelty would have been burned out, like the charcoal stains under my eyes where futility wipes its feet.

I could do any one of those things, but not all of them. I'm not Him, after all.

morning, noon, and night, I've had the same luck in one out of six for years as I've had with you.
My fingers are just too scared to admit the slow draw of fear that luck might not have ever been what would bring your impossibles to my doorstep.

i am not a consumable anymore, merely consumed: unrecognizeable.