Your love was nothing more
than a giant contradiction.

Like a history book
derived solely from fiction.

You provided never ending pleasure
in my bed,

but unrelenting pain
inside my head.

There were times you praised me
and other times you were just malicious.

You became both my anecdote
and my sickness.

You gave me well wishes
yet you walked out the door.

That night we became the strangers
we never were before.

The smile on your face
is enough to inspire.

To make these hands
dance like fire.

Enough to electrify
these dull, empty pages.

To spark emotions into art
that will last for ages.

Time is a tricky thing...

the way it flies by
when we're together,

but yet feels like eternity
when we're apart.

the way it's capable of
healing my soul,

but also of
breaking my heart.

This is only our second encounter,
but yet here we are,

entranced in conversation,
shutting down the bar.

Perhaps I'll fall too quickly,
all rationale forgotten.

Ignoring all the warning signs
to "proceed with caution."

But if hanging on your every word
is something I'm meant to resist,

I think I'll just continue my journey
into this beautiful descent.

With each passing day
spent within these walls,

I start to wonder
will I have any creativity left at all?

Or will it simply be driven out
by all of this sadness?

Allowing this mundane lifestyle
to siphon off my madness.

We fell asleep
less than four hours ago,
but yet here you are
heading out the door.

"That was fun"
is your weapon of choice,
inflicting pain
using only your voice.

I return to the mess
we made of my bed
with your final words
stuck in my head.

Too many drinks
and a lonely text in the night.
A vicious cycle
with no end in sight.

Opening up to you
when I'm far from sober
then piecing myself back together
once it's all over.

I hope I never witness the day
when I no longer welcome love, lust,

or even heartache.

For these emotions are the ones I savor,

the emotions that keep this pen
dancing on paper.