Cobain mentioned one saying to another, “I’m so lucky to have met you”,

That’s what I thought, this luck’s price being your lack of reciprocity,

That’s the price I unintentionally pay, though knowingly I would too,

Leaving me to ponder, what Faustian bargain can this be? 

 

Your memories reside in my mind like nails through my wrists and through a crucifix,

Golden nails that never rust, unlike the iron in my blood, cold and tart, 

Your silence from March to May leaves me broken in a way I can’t fix,

Is my indignation not a reasonable price for the hurt posed by your callous heart?

 

You’re too fortunate to have to pay for something worth a fortune,

A human heart — granted, it’s mine, so it doesn’t really matter at all, 

Exsanguinating the vessel carrying it, extracting the iron, filling a golden spoon,

A dime a dozen, perhaps, but to me it was everything -- still, it’s your call. 

 

A thing on the doorstep, some kind of eldritch existence,

Drifting through a life I am stealing from, for the fortunes I cannot pay for,

My life is my price, not through martyrdom, but through slow disappearance,

What I wanted was your friendship and the honest conviction that it was real, nothing more.

 

This is solely a moment of rumination to recite in front of an uninterested, unfortunate audience,

Discomfiture and embarrassment a small fortune to pay for the hopes that you will listen,

That a genuine thought replaces your typical response of an aloof disinterest, or silence,

That the closure about irreversible estrangement becomes as palpable as a golden coffin.