We all like to think
     Our lives as though they're
           Stories,

And ourselves to be
     The hero, grand and shining
          In some tale yet to be written,

An underdog,
     Burdened with the weight of the world,
          Waiting for that lucky break,

But sometimes our final act
    Never resolves to an exciting conclusion,
         Because no one is guaranteed anything more
              Than the role of a background character

In someone else's saga,
     Prose proposed entirely devoid
          Of our own happy endings.

I dreamt of you last night,
     smiling sweet like the sun
          with a surface cool to the touch,
Your chest rising against mine
     with a spark of
            never-close-enough,
And your chest falling
     as you exhaled flower petals
          and spring days
               right after it's rained,

And when I awoke
      in my stone-cold
            casket of a bed,
Even after pulling over
     Another blanket (twice as thick),

I shivered.

I'm sitting here,
     Lost among the
Static shadows of
     A slumbering morning,

And while the world
     Blinks awake
I'm left wondering
     When my head
Will finally succumb
                              To sleep.

All the pieces
     Of myself
I never quite
     Understood,

Indescribable
     To those who've never seen
The colors of a night
      Never long enough.

I woke up today
With the overwhelming feeling
That I was alive,

That my skin could feel
Cold and warmth,
That my heart could feel
Joy and pain,

And I stood in the shower
And let the water wash over me,
Wondering if all of my troubles
Were self constructed,

And what was keeping me back
From feeling connected to reality,
Like a leaf to a branch,
A tree to the crust of the Earth,

Like light from the sun
That's always guaranteed.

You seem like a thing of the past,
Like a book I've read years ago
And forgotten most of the plot to.  

Though a vague structure of the events
Remains cemented forever in
The corners of my mind
More dark and unkempt,
The details that once made it hurt
Have withered into dust,
Now only scattered
In small concentrations
Across the ledges of my days
That I forgot once carried the weight
Of my adoration for you.

Does the sun
Chase the moon
Afraid of day,
Or does the moon
Follow the sun
Unknowing of night?