i. First Week

                    You’d fallen for my persona,
          noting I’d shown no personality,
                    too horrible to be revealed,
          or none of which to speak, most likely, and
                    now here we are—immortal and
          bored of all the trouble not asking for
                    what we want has caused, and it’s not

ii. Second Week

          enough to accost some broken god, whose
                    vague existence throws us off with
          doubt, tossed like crematorium dust, and
                    some weaker being’s burned bones, down
          onto our opportunity’s loss, that
                    maybe we have always had it,
          but what we see is only a shadow,

iii. Third Week

                    a pale phantasm, and our lies
          are the cost, indebted as I am to
                    your soul for allowing the shit
          I pull and your will, so strong, for going
                    for what it wants without waiting,
          without making of failure a statement
                    or a monument, even when

iv. Fourth Week

          I go against instinct and make of time
                    a waste, shaking its sands looking
          for a mountain, taking it for granted,
                    cryptic instead, answering your
          question with silence, testing your patience,
                    when love is imperfect, as it
          may be, and wordless, as it now must be.