I sleep,
almost every night.
Most nights I'm too scared to shut my eyes.
You're in every one of my dreams---well,
nightmares.
I just can't seem to shake the thought of you.
of you and I.
But something always happens, the dreams end the same way.

I wake up afraid that you might actually be here.

Would he?* Probably not.
Maybe he can't find comparison to that which he adores.
Maybe he can't write a poem, maybe he can't find the words.
Maybe he can't explain that what entrances him.
But maybe he is more?
Maybe he finds beauty in itself, not comparison.
Maybe he finds that being there for her is better than saying it.
Maybe he listens to that voice, and cares for what she says.
Would he? No.
He would do more.

If I killed myself tonight,
Would you mind?
Would you even blink your eyes
If you found me dead on the ground?
Would you be disturbed by the way
The blood would be pouring from my open veins?
Would you call me selfish
And hysterically yell my name?
Would you cry the way a mother would,
Or would you cry like my lover should?

So I ask myself sometimes
As I'm lying in the dark,
Would you do any of this things
If I was to take my own life.