You are enough.
Your broken bits, I don't need you whole.
You were whole when you were young.
That's a you that I don't know.
The you that I recognize is more than enough for me.
The you now is exquisitely scarred.
Not plainly unmarred.
The you now loves with forethought.
Not imprudent action.
The you now is reticent and reflective.
Not boisterous and carefree.
I prefer the you of today.
Always enough.

"Time will tell."
Artfully said, to skirt rejection.
To become a ghost, cyclical in thought.
Ruminations of hope.
Guessing.
Trusting.
Aching.
Craving to turn it all back.
Can time repair what has been fragmented by haste?
Can it legitimately parent hope?
Or will it forgive the ghost?
I suppose it will tell.......

A penny for your colors, please.
Your eyes when I catch your gaze?
Your skin exquisite in it's hue?
That which you favor most?
A penny for your sounds, please.
Your sighs in those secret trysts between us?
Your laugh, a most delicious exception?
The lilting way you say "My dear."?
A penny for your touch, please.
The precise brush of your fingers across my arms?
Your lips against my temple?
Enveloped in your embrace?
I only bid a penny, for those things you cede so freely.
For your musings, your emotion, your yesterdays, your tomorrows, I propose my soul unconditionally.
To scale the wall around those most prized entities merits my entirety.
A penny for your colors, please............. until you are ready.

I cut my heart with what's to come.
Adapted for inevitability that has yet to evolve.
Space is untold.....
I granted it.
Wits twisted, past traumas.
I no longer surive apart from them.
Lost, alienated from insight or control.
Infinity is felt in no time at all.
I plunge into internal torment.
Bleeding unease.
Tears salty with rejection.
Insufficiently digesting distrust.
Rage like broken fireworks.
Contrition then crowding the soul.
Percieved inevitablity is not certain.
Waiting for space to shift.
I feel....... lost.

I ache for something, this longing.
I don't know.
It's there, but I can't reach it.
This knot, a pit in my chest.
I can't breathe, but yet I can.
My mind spins to the stars, but lies in a fathomless nothing.
I want to break these bonds, yet I crave them.
I sing them in my sleep and dream them when I wake.
Lost yet here.
I cry my words to the sky, but my lips are glued shut.
My dry tears fill the night to sleep with the stars.
My mind spins apart, while I deal with the day to day.
I don't know this need, yet it is as familiar as the sun.
I laugh as it burns.
A glee surrounded by..... something.
I don't know.
Am I human?
Or something else.
Am I even here?

To think in narrative, is a living fairytale.
Not of those read as a child.
But of extinction and squalor.
The raw ache of a love nearly told.
The wreckage of damaged goods.
Lost minds a casualty of defective desire.
Shredded particles of tenderness withheld.
A gleaming crypt in the sunshine, while life posesses the shadows.
Interminable woe in an aura of bloodshed.
Rare is the "happily every after."
A dismal epilogue the usual reiteration.
Slivers of a daydream shines through the blighted dusk.
But the narrative insists on the fairytale.

Another mark.
Another inch of skin covered.
Lines of words in languages from ages past.
Self expression to fill the silence.
Skin to speak when words fail.
Black artistry turned orange with time.
Orange is brown and all fades to be remade.
To remake and recreate is to preserve with intention.
Bleeding henna breeds creation.
Inspires chaos.
Forces constant renewal.
A virtuousity that gives life to this mind's insanity.