I haven’t felt her
in 5 days,
I haven’t felt
how delicate
the rim of her
mouth feels
against mine,
how enticing it
is to get a taste,
I have to taste
all of her,
they way she
flows through me,
she’s mends all thats
broken, then breaks
it when she leaves,
it’s only been 5 days,
I miss the bitter taste,
the way she makes
my tongue curl
up like a slug
swallowing tablespoons,
she pulls me in,
and hangs me with
the rope she yanked,
scraping the bottom
of the barrel,
for even a scent of what
will remind me of her,
every taste
is like losing my
virginity for
the last time,
and she became
so much more
than a past-time,
so much more than
something to
pass time,
it’s been 5 days,
soon to be back
at the crack of the
new year,
she’s a constant
resolution
that I can’t wait
to break,
or is it me she can’t
wait to break,
she leaves a bitter taste
on my mind
and thoughts that flow
through my veins,
she’s someone I can
thank, she’s someone
I try so hard to forget,
she dictates and mediates,
a forged signature
on bills passed to
loved ones
that I’m okay,
but only for the night
she’s anger, she’s happiness
she paint’s crimsons kisses
on my knuckles,
and heals cardinal
crevices in my mind,
it’s only been 5 days,
I’ll see you soon
I’ll taste you soon

she told me that I need
to get some sleep,
she has a child
and works ‘till 12am
most weeknights,
then spends time
with me, until
the bags beneath
her eyes become
enough to
outweigh the need
to be WITH me,
she lays tired
but sleeps awake
until she heres “mommy”
then naps
until 1pm,
and I just get up
hungover,
it may be the
need for common-law
thats making me doubt.

sure,
i need to
stop drinking
and stop
smoking but
when bad habits
become consistencies
that let you
survive the nights,
the ability to
shake the
rusty smell off
the fibres on your
back become
a bookmark
that prevents you
from turning the page
in a fear driven
halt of wondering
what happens next,
the stench that
trails through  
teeth to nose
is a tail to
a comet that won’t
burn out,
the embers of each
cigarette that kiss my lip
burn out like previous
feelings towards past lovers,
I was in a state
of loving memory of
having love and memories
until a therapeutic graze
of absolution picked me up
and brushed the bruises off
the bottom of my feet
given by
stomping the ominous
solitary of rock bottom
so many ******* times,
I still drink
and I still smoke
but when a
tedious whisper
tells you to stop
hurting and stop
hating when hurt
and hate is all you’ve
felt for fortnights
exceeded
you can’t just pick
the scars off of your
skin and liver
and walk past mirrors
without urges of
cardinal knuckles
and tremors coexisting,
i wish to stop
like you tell me to,
i wish washing my clothes
would dredge the stench
of yesterday clean,
but maybe the toxicity
of the past is stained on
my skin and
not my clothes.

I have to
hide
my drinking
from her
and I
love that,
thank god
for autocorrect.

I wish you loved me how
you loved him,
you speak with
reverence to memory
and not of present,
emotions run not
through your veins;
with me it seems,
I haven't shed tear
10 years yet
the lack of
sentiment lies
within you,
i feel achieved
when i hear an
“i love you”,
I’m listening through
static; thinking I hear
clearly but being drowned
out by what’s louder,
your touch is deafening
to clarity, and I don’t know
if they felt this way too,
reaching out to transparency
never seemed so tangible,
and being grazed by
fingertips of yesterday never
felt so confusing,
your emotion seems
only soluble through
my tears, and my tears
only seem to fall
with your emotion
I wish you loved me
like you loved him.

she told me that I need
to get some sleep,
she has a child
and works ‘till 12am
most weeknights,
then spends time
with me, until
the bags beneath
her eyes become
enough to
outweigh the need
to be WITH me,
she lays tired
but sleeps awake
until she heres “mommy”
then naps
until 1pm,
and I just get up
hungover,
it may be the
need for common-law
thats making me doubt.

it’s hard to bring back
to life someone who’s
already a shadow suspended
by dust in sunlight.
a partially eaten heart
trailed by ******
bread crumbs with no
start in sight.
replications of
past complications
forge a plagiarized
grin notarized by a shaky
pen on abstract paper.
bringing back to life
sand-burnt knuckles
reflecting tremors
through coils in the bottle
seems anything but feasible,
recovery and relapse are
few and far between
with a fine line that
splits at the seam
without warning,
the ice meeting
the bottom of the glass
again is a slow
graze of fingernails
across chalkboards,
help seems out of reach
when the leather begins to
leech to your skin
with each question repeated
over and
over and ******* over,
perceptions of positivity
can only withhold the
constant of being
a placeholder in
the tangent of
consistencies,
but light has the ability to break
through windowsills
and curtains,
yes I speak from experience
because it’s the only thing
that wakes me up in the morning,
but as I become use to
walking dead
I found my light that
wakes me up
in the afternoon
and puts me to sleep
at night