"Courtesy"

"Courtesy" 

Don’t make me feel.

To feel means it 

either was

possibly is

or might soon

be real

and that means that

I’m left with layers

to peel back

until appeal and authenticity

appear to be one in the same

and that would require

my willingness to touch that fire

and try not to wince.

To embrace that heat

without growing tense.

To draw again

on what I’ve always sensed

but tried to believe

that I’ve forgotten since.

A brief glimpse

and I’m there again

where again 

is both the incentive

and the indictment.

Nights went by

and we laughed

and I cried

and we tried our worst

to hide it from the light;

caring less about the sight

and too much about sensation.

Actions that went against

every single inclination

that I've unsuccessfully tried to present

as something truly intrinsic to my being.

Don't bring into being

the state of flux

that I've worked so hard

somewhat

to keep tucked away.

Not interested in what one would say.

I shouldn't be, at least.

It makes sense to keep us at bay

to preserve my portion of peace

and I'm well aware

of how selfish that sounds

but with every piece

left on the ground,

it becomes easier to convince myself

that there's nothing I need to choke down

whenever you decide to come around

but,

even when fully clothed,

I feel naked in your presence.

No cover can conceal the hell

that penetrates every veil

I could ever hope to fashion

before you.

With reluctance,

I recount the ways

that I would set the table

by sweeping away labels

I thought would never apply

to you

or me.

Never realized even once

until too close to the end

that I was merely making room:

brushing away the dimmer days

so that the darker nights

would hopefully benefit

from sitting next to a light

barely acknowledged by sight.

Don't tell me it's alright

when I'm not

and you might be.

I don't dwell on likely.

It doesn't matter if you like me

now.

Don't dare appeal to my 

favorite

fractured

fragments

when the advent was more spectacle

than the time before the departure.

Don't be to me now

the very lesson

that I have prayed against

with what energy remained

in reflection

and depression

and stubbornness against futility.

Don't employ that tacit ability

to make light of my humility

so dry

as if it should be perceived

as some sort of consolation prize.

My eyes view you

with no true semblance of solace

but if I might be painfully honest,

I'm still very much in love with you.

That truth I still sit with.

In silence.

Don't deny me that reciprocity.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz