Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

I yearn for a beautiful mind.
I sit crossed legged on the floor a foot from my tall bookcase, trying to absorb the wealth of knowledge that hides between the pages. If only I could stop time and read them all. I would read everything.
I would read the lines on every person's face, the history of each road and the story behind each wood, but time is forever chasing me.
I have put a bookmark in the pages of life, perhaps when I am old I will have the mind I so wish to have.

The sky blackens now
The voices fall silent
The moon hangs pale and thin
The oceans exhale now
The breeze speaks softly
The tides become dolefully still
The gods are absent now
The stars remain hidden
The universe pauses for you