A Relationship of 3 Days Time

Dana/Daniel/Danielle

Touch me, feel my skin, I am not here.

Eyes drawn to the back of my skull; a swirling fog where a brain once lay,
and now?
Now questions room together in the drifting smoke
tendrils that make purchase in these grey halls.

Why do I steal breaths from your warm mouth? In hopes that hollow sighs may hold something more real?

There are storms where my lungs should be — in the pits of my stomach they keep their thunder.
Yet all is simply noise — no spark, no answers,
no lightning to be found.

Lethargy sets in my limbs; a numbing salve embalms my tendons and sinew.

You’re talking to a shell, something that once housed an earthly body,
now a vessel for shades,
memories burnt into a state of permanence,
a walking dream of a person that once was.

Yet still my chest creaks in protest when I draw breath,
as winds whip by with razor fins,
and in their wake
a thousand cuts carry whispers that settle in my churning blood.

From beneath these crimson tides I call the dread buried deep
in my marrow:
there is no sense in my senses, only the idea of them,
a crutch used to hold up my breaking frames.

Lover, be not surprised to search my eyes and find the fire does not burn.
My skin runs cold.
I have not been here.

Photo by Jonny Clow on Unsplash

The morning After

Your hands upon my neck, my feelings are not clear,
Muddled in electric confusion,
Our connection gone cold,
frayed between this broken skin that coats my lips,
wondering:

Why do your arms hold no comfort?
In their embrace, within these sheets, the day is yet long,
And these morning rays give no answers.

You’ve held my hands and head down,
but now it’s so misshapen, this tangle of flesh we claim,
So feel me go, let me be,
there’s not too much here,
we can be quiet in demise.

Half-voiced questions hang in the air between us.
All is quiet, deafeningly so.

Photo by Rob Wicks on Unsplash

A conversation, 2 days later

Rend my flesh and render my fat
To fill your lamps, keep you warm at night,
I’d rejoice as you went along your bloody business.
I’ll wake up tomorrow a brand-new man,
unsexed, desireless,
a shapeless mound of flesh
waiting to be filled.

Waiting, wanting to be
found within you
for a moment or more,
A passing of time insignificant,
Ultimately — and yet
desperation clung to us like
so many fingertips. So why?
Why continue in this monstrous search?
Lest we desire monstrosity for its sake and
Nothing more, nothing else.

Tear me down, break me apart and fulfill your purpose,
oh eater of worlds,
I’ll welcome it with open arms until you take those from me too,
smile wide until it falls,
piece by piece, from my bleeding gums,
until the joyous light is snuffed from my eyes tonight,
and you welcome my body unto the void.

Photo by Ritabrata Das on Unsplash

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Jayson is a writer based in Los Angeles. His non-fiction work focuses mostly on the media history and it's impact on modern culture, and he dabbles in poetry.

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Jayson Kleinman

Jayson Kleinman

Jayson is a writer based in Los Angeles. His non-fiction work focuses mostly on the media history and it's impact on modern culture, and he dabbles in poetry.

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