"All I can say is..."
It's carved in the spaces.

It casts its honed shadow
between every line
you would ever compose.

Your goodbyes haven't changed;
they're unwritten each time.
I've observed all the signs
of withdrawal's malaise
to recount in the dark
(if my eyes ever close).

You directed and staged
one more passionate rhyme
through illusionist haze,
veiled an encore escape
to enchantments proposed,

then you ripped out the page
and the hurt was defined
by the bruises it raised
as a fist in the throat,
careless epithets' blows

and the rasp of a blade.

While the duet we played
fades to dissonant space,
ice-cold apprehension
and absence of talk,
your warmth is allotted
for challenge and chase.
Some glance of attention
has papered my rock.

So it goes, in this place.

Intuitive echoes
say you've had enough.
Your torch gallivants,
seeking smiles to be wooed.
I watch the smoke signals
my heart misconstrued,
too adrift to respond
to the heedlessly rough

and the fist in the throat
of a silence endured,
and the boot on the neck
of our memorized guilt
assigned solely to me
under castles of cards
calloused conscience had built
to assuage and to cure
in time for your others
to play with the deck.

Doubt rains on the fire,
imparting impressions
your essence had tired
of white-hot addiction,
calescent expressions 
of our shared uniqueness.

But if you aren't worthy
(my pride spins this screed),
what does that make me
for unfinished want,
insatiable greed
and serial weakness?

Still, headlong I tumbled
deep into your dream

where emotions careen
across quivering tightropes,
one hop to the next,
on perilous terms
with no net at my end
to catch me when pushed
with temperament's burns,
inebriate text,
off-balance thrashes
more than negating
mere flashes
of floating.

How hard is the fall,
but much harder
the landing.

Confusion and worse
thrust a boot on the neck
and a fist in the throat
from feelings I've swallowed
deflecting blue moods.

So yesterday's verse
rings hopelessly hollow.
Weaponized words boast
detachment to follow
in curt platitudes.

Now the boot on my neck
and the fist in my throat
drag the night to a halt,
cloud my sight with dried salt,
toss me differently from
those idyllic forays
when our curtains were drawn,

and the sleepless display
ticks from midnight till dawn.

Without the goodbye,
"All I can say is..."
translated to
"gone."