The Titanic Never Learned to Romance

It means nothing at all.

Swimming in the azure expanse that fills our distance:

The bridge between two eyes locked in place,

I’m sensing imaginary neighborhoods

while you’re paddling off the world’s edge,

searching for sunken ships that read signals incorrectly,

charging off into mythology for instant glorification,

where the curtain of nostalgia will never be pulled,

coloring wreckage in rainbows to disguise what was always broken.


It means nothing at all.

With scissors for fingers attempting to shelter a glass heart,

avoiding laying a single scratch on a fragile core,

I find my breath caught in its own tension,

suffocated at the will of the drama that unfolds as your frame undresses.

Yet a blank expression reflects back into me,

drinking in apathy and mirroring the motions,

hoping to rise a vessel from the sea’s ceaseless graveyard

as every timber grinds against my edges.


I’ve got splinters to enshrine a sinking story.

I’m left with splinters to hang memories on.

I’ve got splinters drilling teeth into my veins,

and it means nothing.

It has no single importance to you.


Dredging the depths to collect more than trodden-on sand,

tracing photographs to uncover hidden remnants of past voyages,

as the realization creeps across a worried mind

that there will be no vagrant ruins to discover,

and the truth lies in the emptiness all too clear to witness

though too intimidating to accept as the demise of a connection.


Whether a scratch crosses a glass heart or it maintains shape,

it will be noticed evermore by the man who did thusly err,

yet the core will not blink,

for it never recognized anything in front of its eyes;

Only a prey to leech.

( ❤ Mitch)

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