After
a period
of recovery,
I am
sick with you
again.
The fever
burns to the bone
and
makes me
see things
that cannot
be.
Love
is
killing me
slowly,
one
poisoned heartbeat
at a time.

I
will
never
abandon
the
hope
that
tomorrow
will
be
better.

When they tell you,
in cheap whispers
and poison tongues,
that
I am broken,
that
I am cold
that
I cannot love,
that
I have done things
that would make you weep
should you ever know them,
I hope you tell them
that
you know better.
Because
darling, you know me.

To be
a footnote
in the life
of the one
whose story
you wrote across
every inch
of skin,
is perhaps
the greatest injustice
of all.

When I think of you now,
I think of you in abstract.
You are not scratched into my skin,
vivid and ******.
You are vague,
a crude outline
on a crumpled sketch.
There will come a time
when I will struggle to recall
the way
you rolled your cigarette,
you mixed your drink,
you said my name
like a liturgy
and a damnation,
all at once.

I don’t know when
an inch became a canyon
my fingertips cannot cross,
a no mans land
I cannot claim.

You may as well be worlds away.

I left hairs on your pillow
‘accidentally’,
in the hope that just once,
you might dream about me.