Poppy Flowers: a Poem

This addiction strains at the surface,
begging to be released from its constraints.
It commands me to surrender the ghost
of nostalgia
and succumb to the corporeal gods in front of me.

In a past life, you were the tourniquet tied off
at my vein,
but then, maybe you were the syringe.
(I could never determine fact from fantasy
once the drug hit my system.)

Teach me to live without you.
But I’ll be honest, the darkness will never vanquish me without my obsessive desire to surrender my compulsions –
the lust to share my stories
with a culpable audience.

(I feel obligated to bury the details,
submerge the tenuous past,
but a part of me will always speculate.)

I cleaved my heart in half,
then shredded those pieces to confetti
the hardwood floor,
but every last broken bit you retrieved
(and claimed as your own).

You will be sketched into my skies,
my personal man on the moon,
but I’m an astronaut running out of galaxy
(and you always swore me the stars).

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