if it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand; hope you find out what you are, already know what I am.

and if it makes you less sad, we’ll start talking again you can tell me how vile I already know that I am. i’ll grow old, start acting my age, it’ll be a brand new day in a life that you hate. a crown of gold, a heart that’s harder than stone and it hurts to hold on, but it’s missed when it’s gone.

if it makes you less sad, I’ll move out of this state. you can keep to yourself, i’ll keep out of your way. and if it makes you less sad, I’ll take your pictures all down. every picture you paint, I will paint myself out. it’s cold as a tomb, and it’s dark in your room, when I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds. so call it quits, or get a grip. you say you wanted a solution; you just wanted to be missed.

you are calm and reposed, let your beauty unfold. pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones. spring keeps you ever close, you are second-hand smoke. you are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins. holding on to yourself the best you can, you are the smell before rain, you are the blood in my veins.

call me a safe bet, I’m betting I’m not. i’m glad that you can forgive, only hoping as time goes, you can forget.

Intolerant.

I fear the return of your crazed demeanor.
The nights we spent laughing and giggling, veiling over the anger I had hiding between my lips.
I can't hold these things in any more than you can.
We were rotting in shallow holes that you couldn't even see.
And you dreamed of having me in places I wouldn't be.
Why couldn't you wake up to my voice telling you I don't love you anymore?
It isn't that hard to shut out something you can't see.

I learned this from you anyway.

Maybe you will cook up something nice for me to eat,
treasure me in safe spot in your little home,
or give me fruits I wouldn't dare bear.
I don't see your face in all the things I do anymore.
I don't feel the warmth I had imagine from the light of the sun you almost gave me.

We will snip our toenails every month from now,
cut our hairs every 4 months from now,
shed our skin every 10 years from now,
and no one- and not even us, will remember the parts that we will be leaving behind.
And just as you will remain being a part of me for a long while,
you will still be something I will forget in time and in all these spaces we couldn't assimilate and conquer together.

Who put you up to this?

I couldn't understand what you were saying over the sound of the years gone past listening to your fibs and especially when you told me you loved me. Maybe you knew that infinity sounded like a terrible possible and impossible oxymoron and you decided to give up on me earlier on.
Sometimes I still think of you when I look up to the sky or the moon and I always wish and mean you well and maybe you will see me one day with a cap on, selling drinks at a Charity Run and maybe then it'll start saying something to you when the realization of how human you are shows on my face.

Maybe there will be a string to tie my thoughts together one day but more than that, I feel a lot better having it slip away.

Couldn't you just answer the fucking question?

I wonder if you ever think of eliminating the sadness in beautiful spaces you know I'd adore.

I wonder if you ever will look at me, knowing everything as I do with you.

i dream of us in black and white films
with yellow subtitles
and you telling me simple sentences that pierce
and make all the sense i needed to know

your arms wrapped around my waist
and your chin grazing on my neck

you were supposed to make sense

It happens when you least expect it.

Closure binds me to a fruitless warmth and the hatred of the other promises assurance.
My patience creaks in voids unacknowledged, and my selfishness scratches on the surface of my calmness.

It's a shared home with a crooked stairwell occupied by the sound of ascending lives I have to bear with.
The droplets in the kitchen sink assures progression in the world in which I lack. I am always reminded that water is constantly flowing or going new places, which I can never compete with.
The fruits that are renting out the space in the refrigerator speaks to me in a lifestyle- just like the cigarettes littered around town are.
I wish for serene hangovers that feel and look as smooth as the silk robe hanging on the doorknob, or the awareness and the energy of the cockroach sprinting in the toilet when the lights go on.