kid

i haven’t known love 
since my grandpa burnt my saturday morning toast
and spread apple butter across the blackened pieces
to smooth its deficiencies
and soothe my anxieties

when the smell of coffee would coat the house
like the cards on the glass table
suggesting the space not only held lives
but was alive itself

i can remember that last friday night
my adolescent eyes burnt from the streetlights
the smell of cigarettes like freckles on skin
i was submerged in a world where i was lost
not found
in a life which was about to begin

i remember finding you
sat in your chair
caressing your sorrow
like you once did my hair

and i can recall the sound 
of a wire snapping
and echoing within
as i lost grip on myself

and the years to come
flashed before me
as a momentary warning
that our final moments
would be wasted in my mourning

and in the morning i reflect
on the changes put into effect
on the wasteland my life has become
of the burnt bridges i regret to admit

but that was then
and this is now

i’ve begun to learn
to spread the butter on my own burnt mornings
to compel the crispy fragments of my personality
to crumble with the delicacy of me

i’ve begun to learn
that i can master the art
of the love that i need 
of the love that i seek

the love that i seek
through the casual self destruction
of sex and substances
in which i wish i could scream

i wish i could scream to you an apology
because time did a number on me

the shards of these memories
pierce my consciousness
as i recollect the person i was before
the loss of you
the loss of me

i have been looking for a home
like in a life i once lived
but i can no longer kid myself
i am no longer that kid