Mourning Sunset

He taught us to be happy,
but we needed to learn to be sad correctly.
So he fell asleep to a requiem lullaby,
because gravestones are the greatest chalkboards ever made.

He was my crutch,
my fifth limb.
I needed to learn to walk on broken legs
to feel the bone protrusions for my own good.
So You swept him out from under me.
I failed to recall that there is a joy meter,
It must be fed pain coins on the hour
I needed reminding.
If good things last,
then their goodness fades
like laugh lines at the coming of a long expected frown.
Surely I did not want that to happen?

Reasons fly like flurrying snowflakes
landing at random
as perfect pieces to the wrong puzzle;
pairs of ones that never add up to two.
Perhaps when we go beyond width, length, and height
everything will equate so flawlessly,
but this is the day when mathematics fails us all.

You are a Washing Machine

You probably put fresh paint in your pockets each morning because everything you touch is in color. You are happy like those Green Sundays you sometimes make and as unpredictable as chain lightning refracted off a clear glass marble. With one blast you broke all my mirrors but I am very clever and have put them back together with black mud and now I get to look more contorted than ever. So now that I see me in washed out lighting fractures I have been able to realize that love must always lead to hatred of something. What if that something is me? I think I know the answer. See how it shines dull and shadowed, like a cumulonimbus cloud or like black mud? Because your love is like beautifully distressing Communism where everyone gets one tablespoon. I’ve tried to sneaking more but the words and jokes always come out as garble once I realize how silly I am. Then I am revealed as a snail without my shell always having a constant slimy reminder of everywhere I have been. But knowing what you have lost never helps you get found. I will ask you to help me find, and here is my start: How deep are you? Because I’ve been wading for an awfully long time. Waiting for you to pull me down to where my feet can’t touch the bottom anymore. It would be dreadfully lovely to drown.