Absinthe is a bitter drug that consumes me with fire
as I gulp it down
From across the shadowy air of the Café
I can see Combeferre educating gently on the philosophy of the
innocent good
while Jehan waxes poetic he wrote himself
his soft voice tremulous but eager
In the far corner of the room
Courfeyrac listens attentively to that
love-struck youth lamenting his trials of love
The Amis converse in hushed tones as the pregnant tension
hangs in the air
awaiting the moment when Death appears
to claim His prize
Like a beacon in the night I see you stand
glorious and unwavering in our midst
Your fervent words create galaxies
and I have lost myself in the debris of a ruin of
my own design
My sense of being has shattered-
Man cannot see a reflection of his own face
when looking into the mirror of his
better self
Unthinkingly you bite savage remarks at me
as I wake
Unknowingly you whisper tender words to me
as I dream
How came you to burn like fire while
graced with a radiance that angels possess not—
beauty from a god I have no belief in
I am torn asunder
unraveled by your expressive gaze
dashed upon the shores of your passion that I so
violently lack
This siren's call heralds me to destruction and yet
I cannot fly myself to safety—
cannot find it within me to try
The dreamer has filled the skeptic with faith
and it's enough to almost make me believe
in miracles
But heartache is a bitter drug that consumes me with agony
as I swallow it down…
and I reach for another bottle
to remind myself
of this.