[PancakeBrah]

The Invisible Man

Peruse the mirage. The refuse collected,
manifests into another useless facade. Translucent and odd.
A blown fuse. Defective. Weakness imbued in his fraud.
Of the truth, so agog. Tumorous. So many clues to be logged.

-

She was exultant, elan. Sultry, disarmed with the results of her charm.
He wrote for her songs. Left to his devices,
he was less emotive than harmed. Stressed, and slow to get on
while she kept him invited. So their spark, so deftly ignited
at the start, seemed prone to go wrong. But things, like they often do,
worked at the start. They both found worth, found who they were talking to.
And as a part, as two, laid in mirth, along with the accompanying acts;
the buzz, the warmth. The sudden rush of synapse. Flush,
rapt in the trappings of lust in the honeymoon stage;
like the rise of the sun, a new day.

But,

Idle hands do the devil’s work. Fine,
but idle minds do a labor of a worst kind. So what started as tics,
and a collection of whims, eventually switched to points of contention for him.
He was fine sitting idle at home, a movie and a fuck before sleep,
but as a socialite she’d go out at night on her own.
How much of a slut can she be?
Regardless of the denials, and their veracity,
time rules everything. And he’d spiral so rapidly
as to eventually shut it all out. The length of a skirt, the amount of lip gloss,
the heels. Everything turned into a insecurity piss-off,
despite the zeal in her innocence. The words of assurance fell flat,
not due to a truth, but of a personality clash.

“What’s his name?”

Some are better off without. Or the thorns they’ve sharpened
are so sordid they have no other option.
It’s nature. He was born to rot and destruct in a micro sense.
She held on, despite his ludicrous fight’s pretense,
for longer than most would. But it’s no good
to fight an invisible man. And she had two to be fed;
the one she used to love and the one in his head.
So she eventually would pack up and leave
to find one she could actually see.

“What’s his name?”