Thinking of you when I'm under the weather might not be the best course of action. For when I do so, I get a weird mix of joy, sadness, and confusion.
Everytime I hear the phone ring, knowing that it will be your voice on the other line; I want to feel that I am saved but I know I will not be fine.

While it is crystal to me that you are, indeed, looking for, whatever, I don't know; My first instinct is that your voice is some music I have to follow.
Thousand scenarios have occurred in my head where I finally confront and tell you that whatever this is has to end; Yet I have never actualized any, for at the moment, you are the only friend who would understand and have listened.

Every night I grab a pillow and pretend that it is you; Speaking to it and sharing imaginations 'til past two.
Immortalizing what has happened during those nights; Which to be honest were not walks in the park with bright lights.

To want and be wanted is what we, or perhaps I, desire. It's a human need that I believe is so dire.
For when lips lock, bodies touch, and breath shared; We make a world of our own where we know that we dared.

Yet our tied moments are loose and blurry; Cause I know that you are not into me as I am into your story. I have always felt that I am not the narrative you long to read; And that you just let me in to play for a pity-feed.

At this point, I would like to ask for your help, an intervention perhaps. Would you be so kind by being unkind and don't let this, for another time, relapse. Addiction can only be cured through good substitution and rehabilitation; So please cut the act as a psychedelic and save me from this spiral of hunger and frustration.

Set me free and I will be free; Take all the happiness and I'll have the rest gladly.
I just really want this to be over, to be done; For what you want me to be, I don't want to become.

We are afraid because it happens very seldom.
Like a train of thought you wanted to write
But suddenly slipped right before your mind.
Thinking that it will not leave your sight
Yet you are uncertain where to look for this rare find.

We are afraid for it might be the last.
Like the remaining pages of a chapter in a book
With characters to whom you were truly hooked.
Waited and waited for a sequel that would not come,
Build up, for you, dear friend, there will be none.

We are afraid that's why we give it all.
As if it was the last poem you will ever write,
Even though knowing that your thought process is an endless river,
Flowing and fighting with all of its mastery and might,
That in one piece you were wishing you are a character in someone's sonder.

We are afraid yet we hope it would for different reasons.
That it will be uncertainties out of unspeakable beauty and bravery,
In a time when there's an us to contemplate and conjure thoughts if we are real and ready.
That fear itself befriends you and becomes your help,
For fear is personified as someone familiar who is no more than the self.

Which would be of less guilt?
To understand and act on it?
Or to dumb down and follow it?

Understanding the error
Is a personal horror
That disturbs you to the core.

The emptiness that isn't new,
You left and let grew,
Feeds on and consumes the nothingness, too.

A tear that won't fall,
Pain that can stall,
Silence that shouts a call.

Of all the liberties I have,
There's three I wanna add.
Want them binding, tied.

To look for you,
To look at other,
To look at the both of us.

To think of the riddle,
To think unhealthy,
To think dying?

To be sad.
To be mad.
To be afraid.

To Miss,
To Be Jealous,
To Worry.

Then we say the set-up works for us,
A system where we give more than we receive.
Made clear what that was,
Lying alone, they leave.
"We got what was wanted."
The 'only' thing that mattered.
But who are we fooling?
The feeling of being needed was no close to fleeting.
This is why I need you,
You and I.
Your scent shall shall stay, too.
Forgetting, I will try.

To some degree, we all feel the same.
Lost, lured, left, (likely) loved.
Dressed differently, curious characters,
In a not-so-new narrative written right before beacons blossomed as boon and/or bane.
Arriving to an understanding that no one's special, the nothingness isn't new, the emptiness is an ecstasy of the endless wormhole where we are winded.
It is all familiar -- the fun, famine, fickleness, fixated on a point of pieces of peace, serene sensations of vivid voids.
We're uncertain if we're guilty of feeling nothing.
We're just here.
Saving and saved.
Listening and listened to.
Cycles of cynicism.
Plethora of paranoia.
Ignorance ignites bliss before our eyes.
Yet wisdom wins spaces surrounding our troubled thoughts.
We dream of destinations far yet fleeting.
We wake up to nightmares needy of the nuisances that nests in our minds.
We're hungry for endings yet we yearn for beginnings.
We live in instances of ironies and presence of paradoxes.
The singularity has consumed us.
The set is empty.
The state of null has been the stability.

When we were younger we feared the dark,
We were afraid of the monsters hiding under our bed.
Prayed that nightmares would turn to visions of a playground park,
The next morning, we feel the tears that were shed.

Now that we're older, we have embraced solitude in darkness,
Finding comfort and solace when we're alone.
Yet we still fear our thoughts that cast vivid shadows over the emptiness,
For even waking moments are now nightmares on their own.