11-6-15

Some would say
That I'm a professional though represser.
Like a cloud does the sun,
I am capable of blocking
Any ray I see fit.
This only applies,
Of course,
When I am in the pilots seat
With hands gripped tight
To the reigns of my ride.

At night,
My hands get sore.
Then they loosen,
And so do I.
I catch myself not avoiding eye contact
Wth the photos I have of you,
Carefully arranged
About my room
In places I can see them most easily.

I'll gaze
And then ponder
And then
Ache.
And then I pick up my pipe
Just like you would,
Just like you do.
But you and I,
We don't use the same pipes
Anymore.
With different pipes,
We don't see the same things
Anymore.
Yours paints pictures for you
Of fantasies,
Of no worries,
Of no reality.
And mine is smoothing ridges,
The ridges you have made
With your shards
Of no reality.

At nights,
My hands get tired.
And I can't help
But to wonder
Where you are,
With your new pipe.
Are you hungry?
Are you clean?
What about the dogs?
Are you alive?
And do you think of me
Every time you trade
The reigns of your ride
For a grip on your pipe?