You are above me, for the simple fact that you are not me.
I am but a lonely piano player, who resides in the corners
of restaurants and blackened old hearts. You, with

glimmering eyes, and mischievous lips, dance barefoot
against the earth, the arches of your feet covered in free-verse.
I do not approach you; you are above me.

And here is something you may have overlooked
One room’s floor is another room’s
ceiling, and while you sway and dance and live and wander

you are inevitably doing so on my dreams. Burdened and breathless,
I sit and watch you move, up in the stars and the night and the
glow of the moon.

I look up and i see Heaven, you look down and you
see Hell. And as you bow your head to pray, just remember,
you are above me.

I lost my mind whilst
trying to find my heart

I am not suicidal.
But life has lost all meaning.
While I may not go looking
for Death's hands,
if He found me,
and wrapped his fingers around mine
I think I just might
fall
     in
          love.

Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.

They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.

They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.

They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.

These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.

They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.

But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.

Swords!
I believe I own one. It's small in size
but great in strength. And harm? That may be
the only thing it has granted me. As it grazes
against the backs of my teeth and cuts
at the necks of old lovers, I am not sure
whether I am grateful for this tool.
Wielding all this power, is it a blessing or a curse?
But what am I saying? What do I know?
All I've got is a tongue.

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

He held onto his stuffed rabbit and asked
‘what are those lights in the sky’, with wide eyes
and a genuine interest in human nature.

I explained to him that they were stars, and
when he asked what that meant, I said
‘they’re just ***** of gas, light, and hope’

and these vast spheres of gas and light
and hope, govern us. Tyrannize our tiny
existence with their somewhat larger indulgence.

How we worship supernovas and eclipses, how
we wish on things that merely embellish the moon;
that glow. How we loved to watch things, and pretend

that they were of some sort of importance. We could
spend whole nights lying on our backs with lovers
watching still shots of the void. Figments of imagination.

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

And unfortunately, neither could I.

I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if

in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.

I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...

..or sorry, for that matter.

I have a question, love: Did you, when learning of my absence,
search for me? Did you look right there, in the air,
between the clouds and the sky - find me floating, filling your lungs?
Did you feel me pulsing through your veins, warming your bones

and caressing your spine? Did you look in the dusty corners of rooms
and cracks in trampled sidewalks? Did you ****** the covers and sheets
from your cold, stiff mattress, finding the pea that bothered your pretty
little head? Did you, for a second search for me?*

“Oh, but dear, I didn’t have to take a moment to question the taste
of the air or the warmth of my blood. I did not peak behind corners, nor
over any walls. I did not wonder what restricted me from sleep. For I knew-
you were there; I knew it was you. Tell me, lovely: what’s the point

in asking a question, when the answer I already knew? That all this pain,
and all this great sorrow was merely caused by you."

I forgot your name, in the
process of trying to remember.
It danced and spun on the tip of my tongue, then
fell to the floor, shattering into fragments of blue,
guilt stained glass. You, with
wide eyes and a firm frown, watched and cringed
at the sight of this, and I was left attempting
to remember the name of the girl of my dreams while
she stormed out of my life in those pretty six inch
heels. It wasn’t until you were gone that I remembered
everything, except how to forget you.