Cobain mentioned one saying to another, “I’m so lucky to have met you”,

Cool airconditioning blasts against my neck

 

I turn it down because it’s too cold

 

Leather plush envelops my tense body

 

As I breath 

 

In and Out and In again

 

In I breathe to absorb the calm 

 

Out to let go of the chaos

 

In to remember the important things I have to complete

 

Out to – rap rap rap

 

I hear the distinct sounds of knuckles against cool glass

 

The vibration shakes my head 

 

The culprit behind the ruckus leaves behind an angry black stain

 

The knuckles turn into an opened palm

 

It’s cupped

 

Curved on it’s inside like a question mark

 

Like something was once there but taken

 

Like a demand, a prayer, and an offering

 

Like a plea but also an order

 

His palm showed surrender 

 

But his fingers showed determination

 

He stood tall, proud, and yet

 

He wore a holed short

 

Sweat stained his clothes– desperately needed a shower

 

But he stood tall and I 

 

I was seated in shame as he stood with pride

 

Looked away in shame

 

I looked away because this inch-thick glass caused a

 

Separation that stretched throughout time

 

Windows were the only way we could see each other

 

But looked away hoping never to see this 

 

We breathed the same air, and walked the same paths but 

 

Would never know how the other lived

 

Oh! The unfortunate ways of fortune!

 

That blew ice-cold air condition 

 

That I turned it down because it froze me

 

But he was sweating in the heat.

That’s the price I unintentionally pay, though knowingly I would too,

Leaving me to ponder, what Faustian bargain can this be? 

 

Your memories reside in my mind like nails through my wrists and through a crucifix,

Golden nails that never rust, unlike the iron in my blood, cold and tart, 

Your silence from March to May leaves me broken in a way I can’t fix,

Is my indignation not a reasonable price for the hurt posed by your callous heart?

 

You’re too fortunate to have to pay for something worth a fortune,

A human heart — granted, it’s mine, so it doesn’t really matter at all, 

Exsanguinating the vessel carrying it, extracting the iron, filling a golden spoon,

A dime a dozen, perhaps, but to me it was everything -- still, it’s your call. 

 

A thing on the doorstep, some kind of eldritch existence,

Drifting through a life I am stealing from, for the fortunes I cannot pay for,

My life is my price, not through martyrdom, but through slow disappearance,

What I wanted was your friendship and the honest conviction that it was real, nothing more.

 

This is solely a moment of rumination to recite in front of an uninterested, unfortunate audience,

Discomfiture and embarrassment a small fortune to pay for the hopes that you will listen,

That a genuine thought replaces your typical response of an aloof disinterest, or silence,

That the closure about irreversible estrangement becomes as palpable as a golden coffin.