I've heard and read this story over a thousand times.
Two kids at the age of 14 falling in love and calling each other "mine."
Two years later and things aren't set so well.
What felt like heaven morphed into a darker hell.
"How silly of these two to believe in young love.
How ignorant of the girl to put the boy above."
I repeat those words as I continue to read.
Sympathizing what the boy wanted and what the girl felt she needs.

I've since then fell in and out of him.
I lived the story, my mind now dim.
We believed in young love.
I put him above.

I read the same book I read before.
Sympathy became empathy, and I read more.
Every bit of the story sounds familiar.
Reaching the ending drives me crazier.

They always say an old relationship has the same ending.
Rusty trust, salty tears, and repenting.
They say an old love is like rereading the same book.
You know what happens, yet you're still hooked.
"Stop going back, it ends the same, trust me."
But I've always been a fan of painful tragedies.

every summer, your freckles come out like a broad Irish galaxy.
the planets are summer days that I wish I could waste with you.
and there is a star for every single dance I wish I'd have had with you.
an asteroid belt of insults and haphazard tweets.
but I slide on, a lonely astronaut,
skimming your freckled universe.

Drinking summer skin,
I hear the voices in the night sky
I'm a slave to the darkness around the stars,
and I can't remember why

One, two, twenty-three percocet in my soul.
Ambulance lights breathing throughout the mist.
Pump my stomach like the sawed-off shotgun
that I was too afraid to use,
because what if I 'miss'?
What spectrum of desolation to be traced with lips;
to kiss away the desire to exist.

Mirrored reflection injection causes the resurrection of my imperfection.
I see me for who I am, who I was, and who I won't be.
It's the collection of
my eyes dilating and my knees speculating their arrival
to the blue and white tiling disguised as neo-survival.
My mind is evaporating. My body begins to convulse.
I am a ghost in a machine. I am without a pulse

I cut myself on the future
I thought of kissing your picture
I detached myself from
lullabies and sorry eyes
only to realize:

I want to make love to you in November,
just before the empty of December.
Where snow blankets
and suffocating leaf-beds
aren't the only dreams
to fall asleep in our heads.

I could hear your voice trip
as my hands started to drip
around your hips and thighs-
You could tranquilize
with your lips and byes.

You look so sleepy-headed
Many words I have threaded
to weave a dream
desperately
but you prefer my
reality.

does your weight make an impact on the your galaga patterned carpet?
do letters really give your experiences justice?
do cameras really capture moments you'll never see again
they cant capture the feeling you were feeling what's seeing to a feeling?
a visual memory to limited words? limited meaning? limited energy?
what is emotion in a passion? describing motives from your soul into motions?
what is purpose?
what's an answer to a question?
common sense?
whats common sense?
limited senses?
i cant think right now.