Who am i kidding
no friendship
should taste this bitter.

Who am i kidding?
no poetry
can change this pain.

Who am i kidding!
no smile, shared suddenly
can make you love me!

No number of late nights
no number of long days
or number of friendly fights.

When we met you told me
your heart is non-reaching
and
i said mine's over reaching.

Who am i kidding..
this gap'll never be bridged
we're a lost cause.
                                                       so  I left my heart to die
                                                       when i spluttered out my goodbye.

was discovered
prematurely.

all the careful punctuality
consciously conceal within this
carelessly
placed note,
has allowed it to                         resonate
by
flushing the pain

out of organs

like they wanted donated once
                                                      they were gone.

pale flowers pale proprietor pale ale
i have ordered you to the table
almost funny how quickly you arrive
and funnier
ethanol ice, roots and glasses crash in
celebration
oh branch, gnarled wood with a numbered
engraving - i send thanks
via application
payment as in a pitcher - forget
taste -  order it
sugary with a bit of weight yet
you never took credit for
sake of appearances
I only entered you
knowing you wouldn’t ask as much as
the others past 5pm
to sneak out your doors by 11
into gravel’d outposts -
into the dark crying out for something
like your lost beauty.

this is a small mercy.
to sit in darkened rooms,
plugged into a sad song
clutching at concerns midst a haze of distraction

waiting

for You to pierce it.

tear right through the walls
the pillows
the headphones
straight to the skull.

this is a small mercy.
the only one left.
so I wait.

you can cast shadows
on bedroom walls
it's all You know.
            i know.

it doesn't excuse
my chasing
as you are all i know.
                        **You know.

Now where is there to go?*
                                         \\
                                           *No where is there to go.

deleted your location
from my phone
as the little green dot that represents
your distance from   me
is no longer accurate.

there is nothing more to do but let the rain pour. it is pointless to try but we all try pointless things in the hope that they won't be for us. we throw umbrellas to the sky in anger and stamp in puddles out of frustration.

"IT JUST NEVER LISTENS!"
"IT JUST NEVER TRIES!"

from throats that are filled with apathy but momentarily outraged.
we think it will be different.
we try to make be different.
we start begging it to be different.
yet

It still rains.
(and we are at a loss.)

this love is a caricature
overblown into something not quite natural but still you see the foundations. if this was something normal like a nose an ear or freckles fine i'd understand

But it's not

it's something you count back from twenty to cover your need to break something kind of caricature.
it's that I'm not angry I'm not angry I'm not angry
repeating ritual kind of caricature.
that promising the next morning you'll close your eyes at daybreak and finally be able to let go!! kind of caricature.

im no artist
As all my attempts have shown
I'm only a poet
and
all my poetry is *overblown.

Evil starts
"with every little lie" they said.
Yet here your heart lingers
neither truly alive or dead.

Below
This Selfish
Side Lined Smile
Lies A Deep Jealousy
Harbouring A Distance Untamed, Untraveled
But
Don't Worry
Although It Festers
Just Beneath My Skin
Never Shall You Feel It
Inescapable.

blue eyes deep enough to get lost in
i made them caverns to get lost in
and filled with light you couldn't turn without blinding yourself
so i sit in the dark and stare at my ceiling
wishing for respite
in this very long night.

Be not afraid
of loneliness
as
Streetlights must be unlit
to sometimes see the stars.

the emptiness of the ribcage after picking up a weight that was too heavy to hold  
                        like bullet-shells in arteries
                        tearing up from the inside out
                        coughing up wounds that never close properly
entropic love consumes the sky     cloudwatching emotions
sitting alone                                       to make heads or tails of them
begging to be swallowed too          the winds had nothing to say

of course healing takes time  takes time  to  pay  back

each suture like silk each pin ***** a waymark

to be the song you play for others to listen too
                  to be listened to

i haven't seen you stay in one place for more than a few days,
like laying some roots will result in some catastrophic meltdown
like being noticed will cause sirens to scream out
"i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted".

isnt this the point, to pop up shop and take what little charity those
who know what being loveless is like can provide. in short bursts a heart can be mended, the wounds sewn up and put up for sale like a clean bill of emotional health.

till the view begins to stagnate and the bones of all the half-healed ex-lovers begin to ache inside, the embers of a burnt out husk in the chest smoulders with the promise of "it'll be better elsewhere."

"they might want me elsewhere." "someone will love you elsewhere."

There is little I wouldn't do.
For

falling asleep
with your scent as my blanket
your chest my pillow
and your breathing my lullaby

Yes.
There is little I wouldn't do.

Return. Light, not blinding
Dispel my fear, my terror
of
loneliness (in hiding)
I. I. I.
Taste, nothing but ashes.
The hard fought flame called:
Us.
But as all fires die out
And all hope. All trust.
We must forgive (or at least forget)
We must return to dust.

perhaps you're hell-sent.
these false feelings
words never truly meant.
                                                                                with bruises
your hands may intend.
because you're precious
you're my friend.

sitting on the roof tiles
stretching out tonight
i see our city blind itself in moonlight
i hear its call for someone to love it
like a newborn.
we should break its heart again.
                                                           it builds character
                                                           it should learn to mourn.

the name I’m calling in the night
is the ghost of yours.
an apparition
wraith-like, transparent
against my lips.
whispered in the witching hour
alone in the dark,
to summon something
or you.

i spoke back into the echo
of an earlier cry
an
outburst of comfort
attempting
to heal the older me.

are we defined
by tragedy?
only thing tying us together
is my desire to be called
we.

Do you think logically
or logistically?
Cause it seems to me
Love,
has no place in your vocabulary.

Yet your bank balance expands,
as does the gap
in our bed.

Put my money to my mouth                                                you said.
                                                                    Where

It should of been I love you                                                  instead.

is spending more time
waiting than moving,
living?

If so:

is spending more time
remembering than making,
mourning?