Noncovalent Bond, James Bond.
That one thing you did that one time was really mean and you should be ashamed of it.
"Have you ever had an Egyptian feast?"
Stop recommending posts.
You were a very important part of my life and now you’re gone, seemingly because you forgot how to take my jokes. Or you couldn’t maintain a dying spark between friends.
The saddest thing is that every catalogued joke will eventually have to be explained throughout the course of human history.
…but we’ll be fine and you know it. Every poem I wrote for you those thousand years ago, I meant them all. I always flirted with achieving the impossible and that was you. I failed… but I get to say that part of me died trying. I hugged the Sun once as she headed upstairs. I’m happy, on my way to the stars. The night ever falls on the meaningful and meaningless alike.
Bye bye Jess.
If you don’t watch this or haven’t seen this, you should have a good excuse.
I want to steal gold watches and polished amethysts and drop them in your nest. I want to fan my tail feathers in an equally polished display of value. Then you’ll know that I’m scared to death because I don’t know what I’ll do with you once I have you. We don’t deserve the cloacae we get, dearest.
Do you understand? I fear you and your gravel-laden gizzard.
God damn it. This is why we can’t have nice things.
The mornings started with struggles
between joys and gains;
not knowing the why of things
and never being told.
One day you stayed up.
You broke the pattern of sleep;
twilight in your formative years.
It felt like you cheated God
before you thought he may not exist.
But there was beauty
in the red of morning.
You felt complete for a moment
as though this was like
being an adult.
Then you loved a swath
through the opposite sex
and broke hearts; claimed trophies,
but killed yourself a little when you
stayed up late with that one,
who wasn’t the same as the rest,
and watched the sky turn red.
You remembered that day
whenever the different one
moved on without you;
and there was no longer beauty,
but the little deaths,
in the red of morning.
You learned how wrong you were
about so many things.
You loved like a Tyrannosaurus rex
and voted or howled like a Beta wolf.
Those you practiced on and forgot
went on to trick others,
thinking the treat was immediate,
forgetting those watercolor red mornings.
You learned so many other things
about life and loss.
Your collection of ex-soulmates
were all on a social medium:
happy, married, having kiddies.
The one you loved the most
started parenting without you.
So, you are solitary but
you take solace in that
twilight of your formative years.
Since you took a different path
you found solitude the natural result
and earned a full stomach
through your full brain.
You learned self-esteem and its applications.
You attempted, failed, attempted, failed, attempted,
literally and figuratively,
to capture the red paint of morning:
the twilight of your formative years.
Then you started to notice when
those friends were more honest
than they hoped to be.
Beneath the bulletproof smile
was a torture of self-betrayal.
They admit they hate themselves
on accident; and
you love and want to help
but they slept through the
watercolors of morning:
Should they see them now
it would only look red.
In the twilight of settling bones
you could either feel
embitterment or joy.
Nature was supposed to
dictate the former; but,
you remember the formative years.
Whatever your craft, it couldn’t be replaced by objects in the end,
whether you copied from the Ditto,
built your own store, or
wasted time online.
You created your own twilights,
synthesized the red of morning,
all captured in your invaluable brain.
It was guilt and beneficence;
love, pain, and joy;
being a link in a chain;
being the black sheep;
hunger, thirst, contentment;
panic, solitude, solace;
children of yours,
that weren’t yours:
the answer to your question
of what made the reds of morning;
each thing a noncovalent bond.
So you put your phone on mute,
slipping into the evening,
never needing to see another twilight
remembering enough from
the formative years and on,
earning each blue evening;
each red morning;
and every reason to smile,
where nothing more is permissible.
I’m in love with ghosts.