It is half past one in the morning and
The red digits from the alarm clock
Lecture me for thinking about you.

The pillow next to me
Harbors your absence,
And the loneliness holds me.

I glare at the numbers,
Fully aware that I will be exhausted come morning.
Then the time changes and it is one thirty-one.

I can't believe I let you ruin me*
My skin is raw from remembering
The way you captured me
With every sip, hit, drag,
****.

My dreams and life contrasting
in the abstract I pretend to transcend
I feel the ground collapsing
So I spark up and promise myself its godsend
Spent on the nonsense so I absolve
Then slowly revolve again
Ascending to the sky on the wings of deceit;
I cascade downward in a thousand droplets of oblivion

We say things like "farewell" and "goodbye" but a lot of times we don't actually fare well and the bye isn't good.
This bye isn't good and I'm not faring well.
I've said goodbye so many times now I don't know what goodbye means anymore but I think it means that this is the end and I won't see you again.
I don't really want this to be the end because it feels like there's a fire in my eyes causing them to melt and there's a fire in my heart causing my chest to burn and it's moving down to my stomach like a *** that's starting to boil and I can't hold anything down.
I'm rarely ever at a loss for words and when I think of you the only thing I can muster up to say is I love you and I know this bye isn't very good but I'll say goodbye if that's what I'm supposed to do. They said I could visit but your face isn't quite the same when it's a picture on a grave.

Fare well.
I love you.

I used to think maybe if I held my breath long enough,
the universe would send me something -
a boy, the wind, the sun's beams -
to get me to take at least one more fresh intake of air.

I quickly learned that, in life, you never get handed anything.
You must either politely ask for what you want
or grow a pair and go grab it.

She killed herself every night while she slept
So waking up always felt like a miracle
And she was in love with her misery
With a cigarette in her left hand
And her right on the steering wheel
She cried to the rhythm of the windshield wipers
And drove through the rain without a destination
Snapping pictures through the rearview
She organized them from last to first
She likes recalling memories in reverse
She says it's less painful to watch
when you know that in the end
She makes it home again
*Well as long as you make it home again

I don't consider various eye colors "beautiful" nor "enchanting".
In all honesty; I've never really understood the incorrigible obsession with iris pigmentation that is genetically inherited and beyond the control of the possessor of the same pair of eyes you deem "beautiful".

But in contradiction to the callous statement I've opened with;
I've found a pair of eyes that I can unhesitantly call beautiful.

It should be noted that I only fell in love with the eyes after I'd seen them roll back with pleasure
(a memory that still makes me shiver)

And from that night on; I started to notice every single beautiful thing the eyes did.

The way they lit up with frenzied excitement,
The way they burned with raging desire,
The way they filled up with salty achromatic tears.

I've loved the eyes for as long as I can remember.

But I don't consider myself lucky just because those same eyes look at me lustfully midweek; but because in a seemingly redundant life, those eyes became something to look forward to seeing; or feeling pierce through your skin on a warm Saturday night