Legend says: “don’t trust your type of man”
I set out to prove the legend right for a change.
Driven by the despise for its legendary unchallenged authority,
I strongly felt it had to be done.

The sky is painted gray.
I disassemble the clouds
and rearrange them to look like cigarette puffs
someone is smoking somewhere with conviction
honestly believing they reach me meridians away.

The urge to leave you every time I love you
is as irresistible and hopeful as the naïve thought
of two like us ever fulfilling each other.
Pushing you away is far more appealing than being mutilated
by the prayers the butcher moon holds ready for me
every past-midnight.

I go to bed to entertain the demons
that pay me back in puzzle pieces
that help me maze out the stories
you feed the demons each night
right before I come.

I read you clear,
like the aftermath of my third mistake.
You weigh heavy,
like the long silence right after lesson two.
My violent desire to help left me
when I made it to the top of Hope Mountain –
confident that the feeling of obligation to pay for your funeral
will set my debilitating guilt free.

Of the poets I fed, entertained, took good care of, and loved,
none penned as much as a single line of my birth month.
I visit their tombs every January third, I do –
they all died alone,
hearts longing-heavy,
mouthfuls of me.

Well learned in tongues,
well versed in secrets,
well trained in engineering of routes,
transporting all impure blood to the heart.
A complete failure in CPR and musical revivals.

To entertain your need to deconstruct,
our banned religion
and my blasphemous beliefs,
a church we shall build,
with our own exchanged confessions;
a church for heroes and traitors,
beginners, sinners and settlers.
Lacrimosa we shall unceremoniously name it,
as a default for all the big little loves that could.

©Kozi Nasi