TAKE A MOMENT FOR NERO
Rome is burning.
Rome is burning and I am watching from the hill,
My head tilted to the side as if the fires are just
A simple surge of autumn through the air, decor
For the wasteland. A lock of hair comes to
Obscure the city from my gaze as it combusts.
But this is not Rome.
I am not a soldier.
And this is a love story.
You look at me like you’re coming home from the war,
Hands worn down by calluses and chest worn out by
Terrors you won’t even touch. And I am beside you,
Touching the glass door that separates us, writing
Confessions in the fog, reaching to you before the frost.
There we were, in a dark theatre with the only words
Repetitive, unrequited, presumptuous dreams; and
You looked at me as she said ‘I love you’ on the screen,
And I want that to mean something. I want to dance in
Front of the yellow line without my lips burning.
Look. I am the thing that must hold. I am the thing that
Will not hold. I am standing in front of you in front of the
Train tracks, and there are so many things caught in my
Throat that I can’t say anything at all. This is fragile, and
The current of change is hurtling in to the station.
Winter’s chill is coating our skin and bones with maddening
pinpricks of stagnancy that wring their hands as they bite. I am
Escaping the dark room and the knob is burning my hands.
One door to the promised land, one door to the
Slowest disband, one door to a void of—void of—unease.
The truth is I don’t know what the door opens to.
Trembling, I held a rose of safety and grew my own thorns,
Wandered around a maze with the thread you brought me
Tangling in my weary hands. My own affections are the last
Traitor; the eye of the storm that threatens ruin. A long time
Ago I wrote I liked you but that I couldn’t break us. It holds true—
But I light the match anyway.
After all, Rome isn’t burning.
Only I am.
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