Hi. You could call me many things, including easily inspired, awkward, goofy, sarcastic, or peculiar. But...I prefer Madelyn. Nice to meet you.
Because you’re a raging storm and I’m a light rain; you’re a supernova and I’m a white dwarf; you’re an abyssal ocean and I’m a shallow puddle; you’re the sunshine and I’m the shadow; you’re a whole book and I’m a mere page; you’re a hurricane and I’m a breeze; you’re a planet and I’m an island; you’re the bright lights and I’m the dull ones; you’re a field of flowers and I’m a bed of weeds; you’re profound and I’m mundane; you’re ceaselessly incandescent and I’m helplessly opaque; you’re everlasting and I’m ephemeral; you’re the evening wishes and I’m a passing thought; you’re a poem and I’m a word; you’re the sunsets and the sunrises and I’m nothing but a witness to your beauty.
Like a fucking circus blowing through town, we happened,
left wrappers and pinwheels littering the ground like dead bodies.
Like the end of a war.
You moved around the house so gracefully, never touching me,
and I laughed because I thought
it was your best act,
waited hours for your hands because I didn’t
want to miss the rest of the show.
We walked past each other
like a trapeze act, like acrobats
on a tightrope, arms spread
on either side like it would save them from falling,
and we were the best act around.
The tent opened, and we were beautiful, effortless, jumping through
rings of fire, catching each other in mid-air, wearing our best clothes.
You loved me so well with the doors open.
You loved me so well with an audience,
but I don’t want the circus anymore, baby.
I don’t want it.
I want to bury it six feet under,
mourn it like a casualty and then move on.
Chalk it up to something that sounds
less like an empty fairground where
we fired our first shots, where we
first started to fracture like a bone.
We may not have worked, but,
were we good at pretending.
were we something to look at.