To my perfect wife whom I seldom deserve.

I need a new obsession
because this one has died
A new kind of comfort
because we’ve bled this one dry
A fragrant feast for dark thoughts
A new place to hide;
from them, from us,
from everything that torments my mind
A new entry to escape the world outside
A new hatred to mask all your lies
Some kind of new chaos to playfully unwind with you by my side
A new kind of funeral or farewell for the promises, the vows long ago made to each other; to say we failed is to admit we ever tried
A new inscription on headstones to mark the days of birth, of death, of dreams, of futures we’ve never had, of a laughter we shared; only known by the truly deranged, the truly mad
A new grave to neglect, to forget, to desperately await a visit, or offer a welcome reflection to passing strangers, a guide to the unborn of forever
A new kind of decay to erase December’s melancholy day after day, that eve we so enshrined, held sacred, allowed to tarnish with timeless abandon
A new kind of 'new’ to replenish the oceans of tears time drank, the apologies unwelcome from bitter taste to possessed lovers’ rapturous embrace, the compliments still waiting to be thanked
A final replacement of ME, of pain, of broken brain, of robotic emotion, of pragmatism, of devotion, of empty promises, of let-downs, of a husband to blame
A new birth of you without me to make you insane
A parting gift from me to you,… my dearest Dre
Written by: J.A. Lutz

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