No, we weren't lovers.

More like roommates

In a house with only one bed;

Some macabre assortment of culturally mandated sex

And empty platitudes;

Conversations that could fill ancient tomes

And occupy the mind for less than a second

Just someone to fill the seat beside us

At a favourite nephew's birthday

Or a funeral

And remind the world we weren't some lonesome husks

Forgotten by the fickle face of humanity

More dead than the man lying breathless in the open casket

We were serial killers and paedophile priests,

Necrophiliacs enamoured with the living;

People not meant to love,

Not allowed to love,

For fear of knowing our truer selves.

People they used burn at the stake

While the whole town gaped in sadistic fascination;

But now they just tie you to the woodpile

And neglect to bring the matches;

Besides, the crowds prefer watching artsy excuses for pornography

On their mantelpiece televisions anyway.

A vast and ever rising ocean

Of eyes drifting over

Her skirts, her heels, her brightly coloured finger nails

Her violent waterfalls of glossy hair

And rolling dunes of bodacious curves

Stirring hunger in overflowing stomachs

Whilst I starved in veils of abundance.

And every pearly smile and tender tilt

Of that face that could cure any disease

Still lurking in the gnarled hearts of our species

Hid an affliction more irrepressible

Than the vile, sweltering pitch of the devil's soul.

Not that I am one to judge.

Saint Francis would flail his hide into salmon steaks

For the sin of having once crossed my scent

While walking on his knees up the steps to salvation.

And all those faces

Captured in the fervour of revelry and mirth

Do they see the void behind us?

Underneath our shining skin and pretty words

Do they suspect us with the masked skepticism of diplomats and foreign spies?

Or do they cower like whimpering pups

At the thought of being exposed as well?

Are we puppeteers who lost our marionettes?

Or slaves still awaiting the return of their master?

What kind of parasite

Allows itself to feed on another's sickness?

What strain of ignorant brigand

Would pry open a chest in search of gold

And settle for the putrid stench of nothingness therein?

And this was to be my unwavering companion,

My partner in all things which met us

In the crashing waves and thundering skies

Of life

As if allies in war

Find friendship in peace

Or that the jubilant love of children building sand castles

Together

Can linger on after the tide pulls in;

As if love were a contract written on the stone tablets of Sinai

A thing of this world that we could touch and feel

Where a rock was a rock

And a mountain and mountain

And all we saw was what there is

In the real world we can all be lawyers and accountants,

Adding up paltry favours and garbled sentiments

Counting the number of times you folded the other's underwear

Or agreed to dinner with a despised mutual acquaintance

Or held them in your arms while their tears ruined the shoulders

Of your most prized, hand-knitted sweater

Given to you by a racist grandmother whom you never appreciated,

Or silently read your books before kissing the other goodnight

Or nearly burned down the house making chicken-noodle soup

When they were sick and covering the whole surface of the earth with mucus

And you forgot to turn off the stove

Though only for a few, god-forsaken minutes

Not nearly as long as they like to tell it in all those stories through the years

And once the tally is drawn, you'll know you love each other

You checked off every item on the list.

What else is there?

Our tally was different.

It was about attending speeches, not meeting the in-laws;

Building networks instead of Lego castles with the kids;

Destroying enemies when we could have been pruning hedges;

Shaking the hands of dictators while our neighbours threw barbeques;

And forging empires before your cute, little babies

Knew the difference between their father and their overly-exuberant pet dog.

We checked off all the boxes too.

Think of that what you will.