Saturday, January 1, 2011

A Beautiful Man, Holding a Broken Hand Mirror

He was my
best friend.
He wasn't my friend, at all.

He always, gave me the same lamp,
on Valentine's Day.
I always,
gave it back,
on his birthday.
He ate all the brownies, even~though,
I accidentally
used garlic powder.
I think, that we both decided,
he should cook.
He broke my favorite vase.
I never let him know, I cared.

He left feathers
in my mailbox,
and tiny paintings,
tacked to the walls, behind furniture,
so you'd never find them, if you didn't move.
He walked in, once,
with a ladder, paint, and brush.
Painted a shadow, of a rabbit,
on the wall, and, left,
without, ever saying a word.

When I asked him, if he was a vampire.
He thought, that I was joking.

When he asked me, to marry him.
I thought, that he was joking.

When, he asked me, to borrow, my atlas,
he hid, with his eyes,
the trip he was planning.
He dared me to come to his funeral,
wearing a red dress.

I did.

He was, one of the most beautiful men,
I've ever known,

but, he was holding,
a broken hand~mirror.

Goodbye, Pike.
No~one can live, as a mirror.

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