Facsimile

What is it about us?
For that which we cherish,
Our conviction has no enthusiasm.
Why do we still love each other so?
My love, we are like ephemeral whispers,
Memories that acclimatize, they linger in starvation.
Will we ever have one another?

A childhood corrupted by a contaminated congregation,
Our love found demons, which incarcerated.
We were abused, and we used.
entenced for a corresponding crime,
While searching for solace,
We found addiction in each other.
So our love learned to do correspondingly well.

Being used, having a heart tenderized,
Interring we found this empty domicile alone,
Discovering this would never be our birthplace.
Our heart telling us lies,
With legitimacy,
Our minds trying to have us recognize,
A truth we would not acknowledge.

Others may see things, which bring mistrust,
Mistrust, we have earned.
We have seen these same signs.
While other saw these same misgivings.
They have not seen the heart, as I have.
A heart is that part that touches our own.

Is love seeing that which is good in a person?
Is love looking past things on the surface,
To a place where the heart hides?
Does love come from searching someone you lust?
Seeing that which you don’t know you’re searching for.
Is love accepting everything a soul mate offers?
I know my love, both good and bad, and I love her still.

My love and I, we may never be,
We may never have a time we call our birthplace.
My love is not that person,
Which served both time and addiction.
She is a lady,
Who, for a short period let me past the barriers.
Oh what a wonderful sight to behold,
To see past the surface to a place few are allowed.

I found my love in Chrissie Jean, and life was beyond wonderful.
Circumstances soon told me time was lying,
You see, Chrissie Jean ran out on me.
I did not blame her for what she did.
I found blame in myself for not being more than I am,
The fault was easier placed on me rather then Chrissie Jean.
Chrissie Jean could never hurt me in that way, the fault had to be mine.

Love is a strange creature,
Where logic tells of truths, which lie.
We see visions which flow from passions based on fantasy,
Where we write our own reality we call truth.
One day the reaper will call upon us for the lust we wrote as love
My love for Chrissie Jean, birthed out of lust has died.
I sense that my lust for Chrissie Jean now flows from love.

She is not the visions my fantasy told, nor the story line of the past.
She is that lady with ghosts that touched the ghosts I carry.
She is that one we all search for.
She is that one that completes me.
She is that one I love.