I saw your name in a magazine entry - where the ink was wet with the heat of madness - captioned with: “derived from a word meaning ‘the primary elements of the Universe.’
This is the theory of everything:
There is a microcosm in time where an object exists in a state simultaneously whole and broken, living and invisible, full of emptiness and sick with holiness.
Out of touch with reality and present with this misery; you see, I fell down that rabbit hole and never made it past the front door.
You see, I’m afraid if I catch your breath into my lungs I’ll hold what you give me until I suffocate from your memory. Your name echoes through my (decaying) arteries like a eulogy for lost lovers.
You see, the oxygen is filled with absence. In a room full of empty space and the perfume of your proximity I will die knowing this is what it means to be holy.
You see, my lungs are pooled with hemoglobin, and I fear that in kissing another man he will know the taste of your name, his skin glowing like an exit sign.
You see, I’m tired of living under the body bag because they didn’t know what to resuscitate me with.
You see, I didn’t want to be resuscitated.