message for the dead

he sleeps with a bottle by his pillow
he stopped recognizing the difference
between awake and sleep
he awakes to blind chances
he sleeps in comas
suicide is two weeks in Paris
he lives dry with the sun
his body is just a helmet
so he doesn’t have to use his brain
or his heart
he might think the same if he could feel
i can only rage at my uncle’s helplessness
beautiful women
wait on their sofas and pray that he won’t marry them
oh the thrill of his compliancy
his face ringed with lines
his eyes subject to blackout
for he cannot see the world with his intelligence
he can only finger it out of lust
tempting imaginary rainstorms
trying to outwit water with his dissatisfaction
he is immortally naked
lingering forever
labored with stillborn daydreams
i never thought it was possible to sleep your life away
or find fulfillment with temporary deliverance
he brushes his teeth
in Budweiser’s mineral water
his mate
inseparable
he needs the sorrow she provides
it’s a faceless love
sometimes painless
most times expensive
always an addiction
and i cannot help but watch his body lose esteem
and watch gray bags cover his emotion
what a mysterious disease he medicates with his mineral water
colliding forever with death without conclusion
i want to love him
but i haven’t found the chance
for i am the most beautiful thing he has seen
and i have not changed a bit since 12
and i can’t help but wish to forget his voice
so I can surprise his intellect
when he wants me to recognize him on a phone
i want to hang up
he leaves his biographies lying around
and i find them in hopes of making sense of his fabrics
but it only takes up space
i don’t even know him
i just recognize his habits
his scent

his face
i wonder if he will ever take off his helmet to shower
the parts of him that are still recognizable
and pure
and awake
and dreaming