Love and Schizophrenia


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The untenable miasma of loss.
There is a wolf pack
running around in my head
and this string here
reminds me of your eyes.
A saw blade
keeps slicing through my eardrums
and I wonder who lost first.
Was it before or after
I cried blue tears
into your hands?
We are just round people
sitting at square tables–
nothing ever fits.
Like that new shirt
that hangs precariously,
like suicide on a ledge,
from hangers
holding yesterday’s thoughts.
I’m feeling a bit schizophrenic
and I can’t stop stumbling upon
mixed metaphors
that seem to perfectly describe
the feel of your skin.
I’m surprised I haven’t lost myself
in that ocean
that I once called Orion
because it reminded me
of my fingers hovering above
the constellation of moonlit freckles
over your heart.
We are all at once
and over again.
You are starshine
and sunshine
and the music shedding light
into the doom.
Are you happy?
Has anyone ever asked you that?
Not me.
I’m adrift in this rowboat of longing
that contains nothing
but an empty heart.
And you are at the Hard Rock Cafe
staring at famous guitars.
I don’t know how to take that
and not because I’m just
a tiny bit crazy.
But does that mean you’re happy?
Because then I’ll try to give up
these clenched fingers,
these fading pictures,
so that you can get some sleep
and I can do what people do
when they’ve finally lost
true love.


2 thoughts on “Love and Schizophrenia

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