My favorite time of the day is the majority of six minutes that his attention becomes mine.
He's something I'd love to wrap around myself
and I'd imagine a warm feeling
cooling the burnt edges and rough breaks
easing the incessant aching that has become my life.

Something about the way he talks makes the world dissipate around us
and for once I'm not drowning in myself
but in him.

When he's here there aren't words beating my mind
or feelings strangling me with bloodied fingers
there isn't that urge to burn myself down
and the sense that I'm not okay doesn't exist to him
because I don't let him ask.

I'd much rather spend our time listening to him
and always walking on his right side
because I love to look up at him and see how the sun plays shadows on the creases of his mouth
and the infrequent freckles that play in lines on his cheek
the familiarity of his eyes that tell stories of ever changing blues and greens
how he always tilts his head towards me when we talk.

When he crosses my mind (all too often)
butterflies don't shift and shake
they begin to awaken and tremble delicately
nostalgia creeping in every crevice
and I'm consumed in his essence.

And it's funny because he always tells me about her
but I always ask.
How he's never felt like this and how different everything is.
It hurts me when he speaks of how unsteady they are
upsets me how she won't love him like she should
like I could.

In those six minutes something normal flickers inside me
something reassuring.

Usually in our six minutes I ignore the irony that while he's falling for her
I'm falling for him.

If I could,
I would pick up my ink pen
and drown an ocean into you
instead of drowning you in it.
Extract these rotting feelings
for the sake of your ignorance.
Carve scriptures into each delicacy of your brain
so you wouldn’t have to dwell in such misery every day.
Wire faith
to your blemished heart.  
Imbue purity
to your sullied soul.
If I could,
I would write you through all depths of insanity
without any harm
so that your
mind no longer persists the thought of death.
There was a time I thought you were dead.
Only you were painted red
in a black and white world.
Like you have been walking barefoot on a broken road
your whole life.
Your demons imitate life
And life imitates the demons.
You are the one being tied down by invisible, nonexistent chains.
So unaccepting of help that has come for you
Watch  
the sun touch the horizon
reach the meeting of sun and ground
and
Find further still,
The limits you would like to reach only run from you.
You have such a murderous tongue
for society  
people.
But one day I hope to see you write yourself into existence
Rather than to let yourself drown in it.
Why has you dying become something so habitual?
Darling, death is not a friend of yours
Nor are you a friend of his.
But I know of your frequent dates with death
Tell me
Does his neck feel like happiness
And do his lips relieve you of your suffocation
Now
are you lost?
or are you found?
Do you recognize the irony  
Of the most terrifying things happening in the most angelic places
Charm yourself upon that bridge
Whose lights light up the city in golden arrays
With a glazed look
you’d think.
In sadness seen go by
You are charmed by either war or hope.
These occurred robberies have taken much
But they left opportunity
Important people
And a moon in your window
A future that only you know the ending of  
And a slice of the midnight sky.
So it goes.