The Last Note Regarding August

Telephone calls and Sunday fog.

“How far?” And it’s not that long.

Movies, drinks, romanticize

the very first one that we both saw.

Then we delve into obsession.

Hide your intentions with soft kisses.

A skewed reflection and floating oasis.

Perfect the art so nothings missing.

Hands up cause you failed to mention

the arrival of my own assassination.

A planned funeral with concessions.

Watch love bleed to desolation.

And amidst this sacrificial sentence:

Addiction, it conned to be in the room.

Wage the war, don’t save face.

Manic replaced what we thought was new. Entirely

ephemeral cause love’s played out,

while I just wanted it overused.

A touch overripe so then you refute.

You’re shades of green, your pedals too.

Still though, string me along—

as the cautious fool through your fog of disillusion—

and do it without a single clue.

“What’s a skilled craftsman’s most imminent issue?”

Projected facades, ablaze with his very own muse’s

past due,

disregarded truth:

[Now engulfed in the flames

of a love that scorched every line of defense.

To numb the betrayed means the denial of pain,

sponsored by a brutalist society’s pretense

of feasting on promiscuous regret.

She uncloaked the erotic fantasy of shame

as she looked up to view the expiration of

his pathological reign; she did all this as

she claimed her seething offense.]

The stakes are high, like you on fame,

But I’ve been burned here before:

I can and will do it again.

Light me up as your curated lesson

is construed as love’s caress and

keep my wrongful dedication;

surely it was a sign of

concerning self-regression.

Your vulturous consumption of my affection was

subtle and sick, had me perfectly arrested. For your

gaze, your love, your time, your spaces: the arcane

nature of who you were

yearned for that very type of intrigue investment.

And amid this act of self-righteous testament: your

tastes, your plays, your eyes, your cage were never

even close to esoteric.

Performative man with his buzzword delight, your

faux intellectualism will cower when banshee

screams devour your quiet mind. Serving as a

reminder, post-slaughter, that never hearing from

me again should not be

an assumed right.

Especially when your tragedy forgets

to write you as its initial, plot-transforming faulter.