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The Hotelier
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Weathered
You were awakened.
I was never asleep.
I was just drilling some holes in my head that perpetually bled.
You fed your senses.
I made art of myself.
I drew bear claws on my chest and third eyes on my head looking down.
It was live, it was all live ammunition in the gun.
And I meant it, every bullet, and I hope they all stung, because that's what I deal with every time I lift up the back of my shirt and I show you what you drew that night with a Swiss Army Knife saying it was only maps of constellations.
Your hands were shaking.
Mine were stiff as stones.
They said grab a hold.
We said fuck off we'll find our way home.
My blood was burning.
Yours was spilling out.
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We said we'd fly to the end of the earth just to find ourselves.
And your heart, it was not there when I needed it the most.
I was floating.
It was grounded, getting buried too deep to stay close.
And I swore I'd dig it up someday, build a fire just to keep it warm.
Then we'll get off the ground and drink rain from the clouds and go dance out in the storm.
Because birds we fly together.
I feel tethered, de-feathered, and weathered.
A push at its best would get me out my nest then I'll never come home.
It was love.
It was true love, not that shit sold from Hallmark, Hollywood, or Wal-Mart.
I'm losing twelve years worth of soul mates, and its harder and realer than anything I've ever felt.
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