......And she wrote in a frenzy
Breathless and thirsty.
Words to feed her mind
Stories to feed her soul.
And she kept writing, incessantly,
As if it was akin to breathing.......

and it's five am,
and i should be getting
ready do to something,
anything,
but no,
i decide to
sit on the cold,
white bathroom floor,
with a lit cigarette,
and an empty bottle
of wiskey next
to me,
while in the bedroom,
my lover sleeps peacefully
on the squeaky, messy bed,
and patiently awaits
fot my arrival
back in bed,
which will never come.

I'm a little sleep deprived, a little too high, (a little too low) a lot hungry, a little overstressed, a little unfocused, (unconscious?) waiting, a little sick from-a little more caffeine please my cigarette buzz is going,
a little sore from running away, a little sore from being alone

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your *******,
the doubled purple
of your *******,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

My parents always gave me enough rope
To hang myself
And that alone kept me
From crafting a noose
But you
Gave me enough rope to hang
The both of us
And that, my dear
Is all the more enticing