A whole year later
I still bleed
seeing her as I saw her,
aware that nothing has changed.
I am the ghost in her closet
the beast beneath her bed,
serving in her royal court
like a combined
jester
and evil knight,
the man to whom she
can
point a finger at
so that her true knights
might rise up to
protect her,
a bit disappointed
she failed to dress up as queen,
now I know
at what may well be
our last moment
in the same place at
the same time,
all remains the same,
haunted, curious,
a petulant frat boy
who can’t even rely on her for a drink,
too clever and
elusive for my own good,
the perceived foil-er of plans,
for all that I feel intensely sorry for her,
knowing how alone she feels
how in the end of days
it is not me that denies her
what she wants most in the world,
but herself,
letting what she wanted
most slip through her fingers.
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