It was just before dusk,
Tomorrow in sight.
The darkened sky,
Lit only by moonlight.

The birds encircled,
Some unfortunate prey.
I watched from a distance,
This wretched display.

As midnight emerged,
The birds dove in to feast.
In a matter of minutes,
They devoured the beast.

The carcass was bare,
The birds elapsed.
I saw what was left,
And my demeanor collapsed.

Though the body was shredded,
The remains still fresh,
I could make out a face,
They had consumed my flesh.

Strokes on the page,
Wrists moving fluidly as it spreads and leaks across the surface.
You try so hard to erase it,
But we're not living in reality.
Your ink is permanent.
You don't have one of those fancy pens.
It doesn't erase like a pencil.
If it did, what would be the significance?

Pen is made to stain.
We've both been imprinted with the blemish from a pen.
Your pen leaks,
Not just on your page.
His too,
Hers,
Theirs,
And mine.

Sure, tear the pages,
Shred them.
Inflict any form of destruction,
But the ink will remain stained on the page.
There will always be existing evidence of you.
Of the way you so flawlessly allow your words to spill from your mouth to the page.
Of the way you inhale tense air and exhale a sense of tranquility.
Of the way your intensely blue eyes explore the progressional evolution of the materialistic world.
It will all be forever written on the page.

I know you didn't want this for yourself,
Nobody in their right mind ever would.
Maybe you didn't ever want me either,
But change in either extreme is inevitable.
I am not leaving,
No matter how hard you push me away.
I will stay to read every single word you expose to the page,
Even if it gnaws at my heart to be chewed raw.

You can try and hide your pages,
But I'll just read from your eyes.
I can see your hurt.
I can feel your hurt.
It makes me hurt.
It makes me write,
In hopes that my ink will influence the tides from which you view the world.

Please don't stop writing,
I want to keep reading.
Please don't try to erase the disfigurement from your work,
It's my favorite part.
Please find the sublimity in each sentence,
I see it, even if you don't.
Please don't burn the pages,
I think I might burn with them.

I like the silence,
The *****-less waves,
Its shaded vibrance,
The calming rave.

I like the silence,
The barren dread,
I like the silence,
That sits in my head.

Your contradictions lead me to think,
That I'm the only contributor plugging the sink.
It's overflowing, something's stuck,
I peer down the drain, it's filled with muck.
What you don't understand is I'm not the whole cause,
You're not either, but we both carry flaws.
I like to watch the water drip down the drain,
So I don't have to go out and get wet from the rain.
You like the thought of where it goes,
As you hear the sweet symphony the drops compose.
But these faults alone don't hold the drops hostile,
It's a compilation of things that put them in exile.
Please don't blame just you or me,
One day it'll clear and the drops will drip free.
But until then, we have to stay sane,
As we listen to the water drip down the plugged drain.