Let me tell you a little something about the universe

Let me tell you a little something about the universe

One raw nerve kicked off the whole thing
vomiting up devil’s horns and angel’s wings alike
this was before we met for coffee
when silence promised everything
you wore fresh bruises
I chose to dress in purity

not much grows in this heat
save the comfort of the shade
you think I don’t understand
but I do.

Empty mirrors can talk.
listen to their silence
we live there,
codependent.

What’s with all these righteous blasphemers, the condescending bible-beaters
the sanctimonious atheists too
you know you don’t know
or maybe you don’t
that’s worse,
certainty.

You’re certainly a fool,
fiercely, without pretension or pride
wrongly or rightly
we’re in this together
we started this together
we’re one

Let me tell you a little something about the universe,
fuck you.
I don’t know where the anger comes from. It just comes.
Sometimes I vomit too.

//

This is one of those embarrassing poems.  The kind that sit on the shelf because it’s more personal than poignant; the kind that hold so much meaning for you that they can’t possibly mean anything to anyone else.   In my rapidly advancing age, I’ve learned that sharing the specific has a tendency to resonate with the universal of others.   Hoping that’s the case here.  Maybe not.   Either way, this was born from anger and sadness at the loss of a friendship whose ending was as terribly swift as it was painful (and, I suppose, inevitable – I wasn’t ready for any real emotional vulnerability or depth.)

Para la Isla de piedra.  
I wish you well.
Always.