I'm completely comfortable, but I'm not.*

I'm sinking into my bed, under warm blankets with happy thoughts of us.
Until I remember... you're not beside me. My heart aches as I'm reminded of how comfortably uncomfortable I am. Knowing you're not holding me now, but you are.

You who goes by "Lonely"
Yes you, who reads these rhymes
Please pause here for a moment
I won't take much of your time

You see my friend, I'm lonely too
In the dark with paper and pen
So I'm writing you this poem
and signing it "Your Friend"

Though I'll prob'ly never see you
nor ever know your name
I do not need to see your face
nor know your cash and fame

I do not care what color you are
how short or tall or fat
I'm weary of all these parties and creeds
So, for a moment, forget all of that

Yes you, dear friend, forget with me
Inhale this moment serene
where we are not opinions or castes
Just two humans with two glowing screens

Be human with me, simple and pure
For a moment breathe deep and feel free
then should you have the time, and a halfway good rhyme
Perhaps write a poem for me.

Signed,
Your Friend

Sometimes I think I'm in a nightmare
And I'll wake up next to you
And all of this will be over

But you're never in my bed when I wake
Only sleeping in my mind
Tucked away behind where regret and jealousy collide
Melancholy blankets cover your soft skin
Tender cheeks kissed by my disappointment
My depression plays with your hair
And anxiety massages your back

And when you do wake
You exit my eyes as tears
But somehow
You always find your way back to your bed

I write this with little force,

Autocorrect guiding my words;

Inhalers keeping this curse at bay,

Blades making blood flow.

I think of now with little hope,

Without a saving grace;

I think of now, a pitch-black room

With no one there but my demons.

Flurry of words seem to gush out of me,

As I hyperventilate;

Grief grows larger as they don't notice,

As these fingers grow numb.

I don't know how much I'll last,

Might as well collapse,

No matter how much I say I'll die,

I'll just live some time again.

But now it's worse.

Now I lay me down, in bedlam—
nighttime stories never end well—
and I can’t think to breathe,
the sweat is soaking through the sheets.

Streetlamp lights send shadows skittering
wild and wicked through the blinds; they
cast themselves like hieroglyphics
upon my walls: (is this a sign?)

But no, it’s just a fever dream,
I’ve seen these lights a hundred times, and
I’m always contemplating life:
(a radar blip; a satellite!)

On nights like these,
when, wide awake, I
hysterically search for some escape—
(the heat in here is overwhelming!)
–and as I feel my center slipping,
I look to you; your picture framed.

Grounded in an iris, carved—
or crystallized—out of ice,
(my favorite way to meet destruction
is to be frozen when it starts).

But Frost was right, in his desire—
(you know, the world will end in fire)—
and so I will not sleep for days,
as hidden flames rise ever higher.