It's sad how i keep writing
poems about love

Yet picture no one's face
while writing them.

you told me stories about black holes in outer-space
about the void which exists
and the lack of existence itself
you told me about the lack of being
of living
of thinking
of dying
about the emptiness- and the lack of, therein
and the whole time
all I could think of
was how the black holes
and the void
and the labyrinth
have no right to complain of emptiness
of isolation
of darkness
when there are people
with souls like mine
present in this world

The nights are cold
and the days,
they are long.
Another sleepless night,
wondering what went wrong.
And my thoughts,
they whisper to each other
constantly, keeping me awake
as I lie in bed.
Over and over,
a cacophony of confusion
let loose
inside my weary head.

For the problem lies not
with words misused
or words misread,
but with the ones which
were more than often unheard,
and much too often unsaid.
The words are again unspoken; the feelings,
repressed, and unwoken.
I am left broken.
Shackled
and caged behind the bars I've made
for myself.
Down.
Down.
Down, I am laid.

And as the days becomes long, the nights grow colder
and every waking moment I grow
just a little bit older.
A familiar darkness comes,
creeping closer.
A harrowing feeling thaws through me.
Tapping a touch upon my shoulder.
It wears a dark cloak and holds a scythe.
It offers, like many times before
to release me from this life.

But not just yet.
For now,
the noose hangs loose.
And my wrists covered.
And the sea waves silenced
and those thoughts smothered,
just for now.

When you came into my life,
You brought in colours

...

And when you left,
You took them with you.