I will not write about love.
No sooner than I had you,
Did I lose you;
You chose to go.
You chose,
You chose.
No.
I will not write about love.

No more tendrils,
No more pain.
Just sleep,
shh, just sleep, My Dear.

I beg you,
Do not wake.

I will not speak of love.
To have it,
Yet know nothing of it.
Just murmurs in the night.
Secrets.
I will not speak of love.

No more hunger,
No more need.
Just sleep,
shh, just sleep, My Dear.

I sit. Staring at the sky - under a sea of unrealized potential.
I sit. Waiting for some kind of sign that I've made the right decisions.
  That you were not a mistake, time and time again. Certainly not the same mistake?
I sit. I stand. I shake. Slivers fall from my lips. They crumble to the ground.

My fists close. My head tilts upward.

I sit. Staring at the sky - under an ocean of dreams.  
I sit. I wait. For someone I haven't met yet to draw me close.
   To whisper lullabies and know my cries and still love me despite them.
I sit. I stand. I shake. Slivers fall from my lips. They rise in pure decadence. They fly.