what a heavy heart i hold
when an ex-lover tells me
of his 2a.m. window
how he stares through it and cries
he longs to be held,
by anyone, though not me
but i can sing for him
through little videos of folk
and little words of honey
"I'm older now than I have any right to be
Old enough to repaint and young enough to sell
I feel tired
I want to be held
I'm just
Cold"
I told him once how life was short,
but love grew old
My trust is nervous
he has the right to be so dear to me
I'll hold this pain forever
I'll let it rest within
every weathering and lacing moment
where the knots in his hair have been
I still have this window
I still have his heart
I still feel his warmth
even without him

i wished to be whimsical
but my words remained bitter
a cold, guttural stinging
to be everything was to dream
to have something to prove
to love and be loved
i still cannot tell whether or not
it is greater to live in the fantasy
to wake and lift into your mind
to blur your vision, finding any reason
any reason by any means
to wake at all
is it better for one to wake if everyday
they have to envision candy-canes
as the railing on their staircase
if they insist on their futures
or pray to their God
"Don't let me suffer"
is it better for one to wake if everyday
they dye their hair a new colour
just to stop thinking of how they will rot
and how it will smell
and how long it will take
to completely crumble
so deep into the soil that the bone dissolves
do these thoughts make people "open"?
knowledgeable?
sentimental?
wise?
even if, every morning, it may as well nearly cost them their lives?
how severely should truth be praised?
do not medicate me for i can alter my vision
if it takes a fantasy to let me be real
then god bathe and drown me
in the worst of whimsicalities