Destined to Live in Stories

“I came right home.”
I drank in the creeping pace of your high-contrast lips in the faint light,
all the while knowing you were a not-so-closet renegade.
The gaslight was on, freshly filled with oil to burn,
set ever so attentively between us,
like a bridge, or a barrier.
In the warmth of its palpitating glow, the skin on your face was regretfully pale.

For a moment, I believed you could see the ache in me.
For a moment, I almost believed you.
Cocooned in ice, I remain destined to live in stories,
enclosed, unable to move a muscle,
think a single useful thought,
or ascend from the darkest moments
which form the splintered silhouette of my body.

Unlike you, I’m tried and true.
Though I know reality, I won’t hamper your insincerity
and, instead,
offer nothing but companionship.
Again and again, every time,

because I gave my heart to lean on until surrendered.

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