Gone in a flash,
in an instant,
in a moment
and all I have left
are the memories
of a time and place
that never were.
I can see your too-blue eyes
and I can taste the smoke
on your lips
and I can even feel the flash of fire
at your fingertips,
but all you are
is a seizure
in some undiscovered country of my mind,
and no matter how many times
I dye that braid green,
it grows in whisky blonde,
and someone is left with the job
of finding the right needle
to put in my arm
so I don’t split the world in two.
I exist in a state
of perpetual hiraeth;
the only thing that drowns
the saudade of the imaginary
is your favorite brand of whisky.

It burns me like I needed you to,
and that will have to be enough.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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