Dreams of Dying Daggers

Sat for five days
In an empty apartment
Cleaned of glass needles
Where worms crawl from the carpet
To enter at your feet
A rough draft of a possible heart
Three vans of white roses
Run red with the blood

At morning
I break my eyes
And stand on a self-made shore
Gazing across a lake
To a place I’ll never get to
So at night I dream of swimming
But that place gets further every minute

In the afternoon
Teenage girls rearrange my room
Opening the windows halfway
So that I have to close them at night
I’m dragged out across the lawn
Into the empty subdivision that stretches for miles
And I have to find my way back all alone

At night
I drown myself in the stillborn waters
And suck on icicles
Made of blood
Turned red like roses
It is black market blood
Bargained with the ounces of my soul

And so when I see angels
I hide my face out of fear
Feeling inadequate before their majesty
They say they see something in me
And all I can think is that it’s the hole inside me

I want to face the old ghosts
Without getting possessed by the old me
But instead I face this bitter light
This harsh nocturnal eclipse
It blossoms most at night
When I’m alone
And the ghosts hover behind me
Tracking me across years and miles
And time is marked not by progress
But by routine

The clicks of the watch on my wrist that we bought together
I destroyed the old one, remember?
How prophetic that it was destroyed without you
And then time was brought back together
For I never lived until I found you
And your ghost will not leave me
At dawn I row a boat across the lake
And find myself in the place I dream of
With you
Always with you
Not your ghost
But the actual you
Although the ghost is more beautiful
Than you could ever be
Ghosts are like a broken watch
They stop at the most beautiful moment
They stop for a moment
That you will always want to return to