Reversal

I know it will never be done.
I wake up knowing exactly that, everyday.
Your words, your tears, your pain,
your trivialities,
your happinesses, your climaxes,
all of the irritating little glimpses
that never lead me past the wishes -

sometimes it fades
enough for sanity to embrace me.

Then, in a lightning strike
of confusing mess, hatred,
it comes back
to me.

Then soft, sinking ripples of love
run down in little streams
over the flesh of my back
with fabulous promise-kisses
of daydreams in wild, passion, playtime hopes.

Then my words
drip in little teardrops
and fall from your lips
like all the best fucks
I've never had.

Then in mirrors,
I know you're looking for me.

Then you're listening to me, again,
and confiscating my time, again,
because I let you.

And yes, gods, it feels good -
nothing else comes close to that "good".
A die-for-one-more-time-with-you "good".

But like the mirror,
it's all in reverse,
however much I want it all to come true,
never a word, a note, a confirmation
gets past the succulent lies you feed me.

And soon, the other side of it plays
in despairing inertia -
bending and breaking rules
made by the darkest
"twin flame" thing
ever created.