It took a mountain top of drugs
and a cabinet full of alcohol
to numb the obsessions and the cravings
for the perplex taste of the spittle
that always collected in the corner of your mouth
and for the protruding veins which gathered
in the crook of your arm
and freckle at the base of your spine.

It took a mountain top of drugs
and a cabinet full of alcohol
to numb the obsessions,
and the cravings
and the infatuation
with calling you mine.

The dying sun flickers light upon your dark hair
and there's something about the way in which
the birds are slowly beginning to cease their singing
and the trees are rustling under the weight of the
evening breeze
which makes me want to stop for a second
and tell you precisely how lovely you are,
and how I wish you would never leave me.

@illhuemanity

17 and with a sadness as deep as the ocean
which you feel yourself slowly being dragged into
as you attempt to drown yourself in an
abyss of emptiness.

The sun illuminates the freckles that lay positioned on the bridge of your nose,
as you sit across from me on a fallen log.
You press cigarette after cigarette to your bitten lips
and you ask me to "at least smoke one"
because it is
"making you feel bad" that you are sat across from me,
inhaling smoke when you should be inhaling my perfume.

We would meet most Sunday mornings,
always before 10 o'clock, when the dew from the night before
was still blanketing the grass
and the birds were still sleeping silently,
the trees cracking as they awakened from their slumber
and fog still hanging above the air like a burden.

We would meet outside of the public house,
a sign of green metal with gold lettering hung just outside
the door, welcoming cyclists and families;
advertising their beautiful beer garden which we would
often traipse through,
admiring the rose bush that the landlady planted some years ago,
and sometimes stopping to run our hands through the water
of the water feature which stood proudly in the corner.

Brick dust would hang about the air, as we perched our bodies
against the structure of the decaying wall outside the pub,
holding onto each other with our faces pressed incredibly close together,
your hands in my back pockets
and my lips pressed firmly to yours.

We'd often walk hand in hand,
passing dog walkers and old couples, who would
smile and say 'good morning' to us before passing on their way,
and you'd always be so polite to them,
and offer them smokes.

You took me to a bench by Aubrey Pond one time;
and you sat with me, taking my hand in your own
and pressing your mouth to my cheek,
"darling there is something I must tell you"
you muttered
and for a moment my heart froze and my brow furrowed
"I leave tomorrow evening," you paused.
"I won't be back."

-

It is only now, that six full months have passed,
that I have stopped to notice the dew on the grass,
and the silence of the birds
and the cracking of the trees.

I no longer read the gold lettering of the metal sign
that hangs precariously just outside of the pub door,
advertising its awfully kept garden,
and rose bushes planted by a mad old woman,
who paid a small fortune for a badly placed water feature.

I no longer invite strangers to converse with me,
and I most certainly do not acknowlegde their kind words,
and I refuse to give them smokes.
The couples will sneer at me abnoxiously and they will be
shoved on their way,
as I stare bleakly at the ground on which I walk upon,
and scuff my feet against the ***** path of the
frightening woodland.

You took me to Aubrey Pond one time;
and you sat with me, taking my hand in your own
and pressing your mouth to your cheek.

And I never saw you again.