Bad

I've done this countless times
thought, and written
in my head.

I've decided to put it bluntly
without my legion of words
to depend upon and obfuscate the meaning.

Because, there is no need for digression, or dissension,
anymore. I've lied,
and I've stoned my face off with the jagged words
I used to describe you.

Like an old cliche, at night
I'll hold my pillow.

Wishing it wasn't you I was wishing
was here instead.

Staring off, through the trees, through the not so light,
through some other things that I have no comprehension about.

Every turning leaf I've ever seen
seems like an incidentally casual causal cue
of our denigration.

There is no world we know
without
a star
to shine back, slowly, destabilizing, pushing its stardust children
up from the muck, through cruelty and the deterministically systematic struggle of survivors.

I confess my lie, and confess my needless verbosity and pretension [in this poem], and revel in it, only because, without some nuance, I'd never have been able to draw words on your back;

all the while hoping, you'd feel all my meaning.