Years ago
We stayed up till
3 am talking,
And today
I don’t even know
How to say hi,

In my garden, there are cigarette corpses
None of which were ever yours.
Were they yours, I’d have grieved as
Their fires collapsed and their breath grew meagre,
Until the last of you upon them dwindled in winks of ash.

In my wardrobe, there is a shirt
Which I’m not sure is mine or yours.
Were it yours, you’d want it on your back
And not draping you across my mornings as I dress,
Yet I fear I’d miss the smudges you put in my dawns.

In my pocket, there is a note
Unaddressed but undoubtedly mine.
Were it yours, it wouldn’t be written
In such naked ink,
It'd be dormant in that head of yours.

In my mind, there are the ghosts
Of kisses unaware and helpless smiles.
Were they yours too, your jumper would still
Be woven with absinthe, and your arms with mine.
No more than ghosts; they breathe down my neck.

Do they breathe down yours?

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.

In the window stands a man, who neither looks in nor out. Upon his chest the weight of the world but, nothing does he feel. The sun upon his face but, the blood runs cold. Her disdain for life and love forces razors into every breathe. Wind blown passion scatters amongst the rocks. Tempestuous flowers lining the path, starving for the water that extends the grief. Tomorrow lives not, yet yesterday never dies. Her warmth and passion lights the fires in the arms that belong not. The velvety green oceans of lust peer into a dessert of agony and pain. Wantononly departing in an iniquitous journey. This pain was not asked for, but your leisurely stroll through the starry night, put the gun in his hand. The knees throb as they quiver opon the cold rock. Gentle breeze parts the hair. Salty oceans topple over the falls. Choking and stifling on the horrific nightmares prevents the end even for a moment. The pain has become a drug, and the arms open wide. Painful contentment now allows a glorious agony that some call sleep. Can this be the end of love?

The right person,
the wrong time!
The right script,
the wrong line!
the right poem,
the wrong rhyme!
and a piece of you,
that was never mine