Everything Is So Perfect That If You Touch Anything It Shatters

Alex Ziperovich

Everything is so perfect and wordless, our communication like trying to pry two safety deposit boxes out of internment, the way we think of each other in our minds and the way we think in horror of the things we’ve done in our lives as different as burning love as opposed to a smug, hate-fueled indifference for a house fire incinerating dirty smut except that dirty stuff is purely us, we run we hide but surrounded by oncoming mirrors we are forced to resign and accept – we are human and we have not always, to each other or to ourselves, been perfect or correct, or acted in a way we both wouldn’t deeply, simultaneously regret.

A love so sublime that I get so cold I can’t cry when you’re gone, you said you needed time and I said I needed prongs, something to clumsily remove these bullets from my chest, from my heart, unable to release us from my scars, creating new wounds for you so large you can’t miss them because I am no longer the guardian of my own pain through closed distance, you have assumed some of those duties and I would feel ashamed if you were to tell me what in your eyes I am to you truthfully and what would you feel if I told you what you were to me without any cruelty and without any of our mutually accepted pretense regarding our own eternal beauty?

Whistle and sing but we’re missing these things and this void is just a compilation of all that we’ve collected and destroyed in each other in the process of becoming more and more conjoined so that each day without is like a day in withdrawals, going cold turkey alone with no one to share the pain and no one there to call, we have ourselves each other and that must be infinitely better than the other, that darkness in a burning cold weather that makes you cringe and want to sleep all day and stay up all night writing about this thing we’ve created, this beautiful beast, this hybrid of love and hate and war and peace, this knowledge of loss and concurrent gain, I feel lost and I just wish I could reverse past events so as to persevere through this pain but the pain makes this all what it seems to be which is what we seem to need so please go on as you were and I’ll be you and you be me.

Blurry lines from expensive scotch and I cry on your floor in emotional rot, slashing at myself with my own self-hatred and you put me on my feet but I can’t face this – I doubt I can make it – but you’re somewhere in my peripheral vision clutching me, near me trying to get me to listen as your soft hands come closer to touch me, trying to get me to be without the things inside me that make me cry and feel ugly, that make me want to stay hidden inside a junkie and I won’t hesitate to pick you up with all my strength when you look like you need a hand or a kiss or to be forgiven or a word of kindness if you feel bad about something you either did or you didn’t – we’re chained to a see saw and if one of us descends from it we both go into free fall and this is love and love is steel walls.

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