nightmares

[A MORALITY POEM ABOUT LOVE AND WAR WHEREIN THE SINISTER SOLDIER SHOWS HIS HAND BECAUSE HE THINKS OUR HERO IS ALREADY DEAD]

In the dark my fingers move like snakes to the back of your neck
to the self-destruct button above your shoulder blades.
I don't press it, not right away, instead I savor the shallow dip
where your spinal chord meets your brain.

I can feel the heat radiating directly from your thoughts and
the thermals that swell and pulse from your hallucinating mind
while your flickering eyelids like hummingbirds
are betrayed by the streetlight outside.

Of late I lay awake at night, not sleeping but
opting instead for meditating to the patterns in the static
that hums through the mute function
of my completely turned down tv.
The shadows show flashes of the emptiness in destroying you
for reminding me of the things I'd rather forget
and invading my monotone insomnia with your error pattern dreams.

And with my fingerprints all over your unconscious,
the only thing left is to destroy us both in ritual
so dramatic we'll spend the eighteen months
not talking about, but still reeling from,
all the bad things we have seen,
and nostalgia so inviting that
there's not a person who has passed this grave
who hasn't stopped to cry with me.

Because that's the only story I remember lately and
I've never second-guessed myself
or my second-hand advice.
This road I walk is older than you
and I sought you out for sacrifice.