He holds it hostage, doesn't he? Should he ever come back, ever wonder, ever bother...he knows it's there as sure as if he'd taken it with him on his cowardly venture, clipping it to his coat collar like an exotic broach or pocketing it like a lucky charm:
We'd give anything to have it back, pay any sum. This love he took. Twirling it in his fingers like a pocket knife to lodge in our chest when we look him in the eye, drive into our back if we walk away, slice across our throat should we say our rage. No better than a thief in the night of our dreams, a jester in the court of justice where we testify:
Disappeared one day, like a rabbit in the hat, but faded slowly as the smoke of a cigarette. Lighting this fire and killing us softly, floating away and leaving this stench. We breathed it in, already too late. No patch can kill our craving for him:
He knows it too. He thinks he does, a vulture circling our last breaths at the crossroads. Surely, there's room for him in our lives...he dug the hole. What confidence he has, even behind the clumsy speech, a grave-robber smiling down at our coffin safe-keeping the treasure he's returned to claim:
He promises to give what was always mine, like a jolt of lightening to awaken this monster sewn together from our pieces left to rot. It's like he can see it, his creation, his miracle of raising us from the dead, all the proof he needs that he is our savior. Away, but home now, and all suffering can end...even as our hearts swell around the knife still gripped in his hands:
I'm left to bleed, and always more left: an endless rain of red to compliment those hands, those of a butcher with his pound of flesh to pulverize to his liking, carve to his ease, peeling and slicing for an easy swallow. His hands, his mouth, painted uncanny. His words as hollow as a mime who sings:
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