A million things are meant when I hold you to my chest.
A million more arrive in the words delivered down your throat,
hoping the loose lip rivals of warships keep their tremors quiet,
and whatever could be is allowed to be
before a Sisyphean mind turns blind to chance.
A million things are meant when I write across my abdomen,
contorting the cartography into cacophonous scars,
each mark shouting a million more verses destined for dead ears,
having changed frequency years prior,
existing only in memory’s secluded channel.
A million things are meant in a forceful shove in response.
A million more erupt in how I wed myself to hypotheticals,
where the only place we find peace is where we can never be found,
locked deep in the remains of my heart,
counting shards with broken fingers.
A million less is the best from which I observe in you
and the shakes of the head to any question ever-after unanswered,
rendering what could be to never be in actuality,
blessing the word of depression as sainthood.
It’s all I ever hear.
It’s all I really know.
( ❤ Mitch)