I’ll be the first to admit
I didn’t have much almost a year ago,
but I had you and you had me.
We had dug ourselves a hole so ******* deep,
even with a telescope scrounged from the garbage we could not catch any glimpses of the natural life above us.
But I held your hand in the darkness
and gave it reassuring squeezes to let you know we’d climb out eventually,
and if we failed, we’d have eachother in the darkness.
At some point I stopped feeling your hand squeeze back,
and within the darkness I could only conclude you had died.
That I was within a hole, I suppose a grave now,
refusing to abandon a decomposing corpse.
When your lips peeled back it revealed your teeth clenched together,
and I convinced myself it was a final smile, but really, I see it was gritted teeth of discontent and disgust.
You blamed me solely for the grave,
but we dug it together, and it only became a grave because you decided to give up instead of fighting for each day and the possibility it would bring.

Everytime we talk now, you leave me for the night to stew in the sadness
and loneliness, you initially left me to drown in.
But there’s a drought from the skies,
so I fill the hole with my tears,
and the blood gushing out from the wounds you gifted me.
I failed to realize those tender kisses where compressed, jaw locking bites into my flesh,
tearing open whatever jugular you had left with me after going after it.

You tell me about your current predicament since your soul
departed the grave and rejoined the land of the living.
It isn’t as great as you believed it would be, is it?
So why do I still feel obligation and sadness hearing about it?

You left me to fend for myself,
to pick up the pieces of the life
we had together that you shattered in a matter of an hour.
You didn’t feel remorse or responsibility for where and how you desserted me.
I’m just not that type of person.

You set what little I had left on fire.
Whether it was my structure,
my financial security,
my confidence,
and the pieces of myself I wished to give to someone more deserving.
Someone who could be there for me in a way you never wanted to be.
Someone who actually loves me and wants to climb out of holes with me.
And I just can’t now.

I don’t love you anymore.
Atleast, not the way I believed I did.
But why do I still feel protective and responsible
for the one who poured the gasoline
and lit the match,
and didn’t even bother to stay to warm their soul at my pyre?

I must be the biggest ******* idiot on the planet.

I don’t know if it’s just the bitter cold
or the failure of the liquor to warm my soul,
but there’s frostbite on my lungs and an emptiness deep inside me.
“The future is bright” oh what a lie,
spending every night with my only company; the sky,
the stars lose the fight and even fade when the sun rises high,
and it does so spitefully.

I’ve got unlimited time,
claiming invincibility as a crime.
I’ve got an endless list in rhyme,
but I have no conclusion.

Tell me Scout, is this a joke you were planning?
Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging.
Gritted teeth and fists are banging.

I’ve got unlimited time,
but no energy left for the climb.
I’ve got never ending points to chime,
but it’s all an illusion.

Tell me Scout, is this a joke I’m not understanding?
Boo Radley’s tree is not for hanging.
Dodging punches and slurs they’ve all been slanging.

I evaluated the situation up and down, left and right,
and I still don’t think it’s accurate of that night,
‘cause the level was too hard when I meant to choose beginner.
I tried to hold your interest with all my might,
but I noticed your eyes drastically dim in light,
the screen flashed “game over” before we were even done dinner.

The colours to illustrate you don’t exist,
and even if they did I still would miss,
a single shade or hue
that fully captures you.
Better than a Mona Lisa smile,
and Starry Starry Night eyes,
I tried for a mosaic but there was no perfect tile,
nothing could do justice, blasphemy to anyone that tries.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
every gallery should be honoured to have you on their walls.
Too complex for graffiti on the streets,
too heavenly for concert halls.
I can write you; rainbow and tornado,
orbs of faint blue, and a grin of sweet day glow.
Oceanic waves and erupting volcano,
the sun’s ray that came on through,
and the embrace within the wind’s blow.

There isn’t a single brush head I could find,
that could stroke each corner of your mind,
it’s too complex and deep,
it’d be so stunning, it would make all weep.
Putting shame to an Impression, Sunrise
and casting shadows on Lady with an Ermine,
as just a simple picture of your eyes
would last eternally through time.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
not meant for a mere mortal to possess.
Completely perfect personality, traits and feats,
every other human design was just a test.
I can write you, style and rhyme,
blindly bright, natural sunshine.
Digging only at surface to fit into each line,
but there’s no describing what connects it all or the bind.

I know the answer but if you said,
that your favourite colour was red,
I’d let myself bleed out to provide you some paint.
Non acrylic and totally free of lead,
I’d wish for you to illustrate the picture  within my head,
even if the proportions are wrong,
and the lines are blurred and faint.

You’re a living, breathing masterpiece;
completely impossible to duplicate.
Though unfinished you’re still complete,
amazingly flawless in this state.
I can write you; every day till I die,
until the pages and filled and my pens run dry.
Deep like the ocean, but bright like the sky,
and you’ll steal the hearts and breath of all passing by.

I’m the only one with dirt on my hands,
I’ve been crossing my fingers and snapping rubber bands.
And the fragments and pieces build into a story,
I transformed it to a thesis; the quality’s too low for me,
and I never set my expectations too high,
as should I, a lack of truth and abundance of lie.
My oh my and by the by.

There’s cracks in my ceiling and head,
there’s splinters in my skin and my bed,
there’s poison in the words I was fed.

I’m the only one missing pressure on my shoulders,
replaced the gentle weight with two heavy boulders.
I was wishing on satellites thinking they were stars,
breaking free from embraces thinking they were bars,
admiring fireflies not realizing they were cars
but I’m painfully aware of my own
scars.
I’m holding open seminars
to these memoirs of ours.

There’s cracks in my ceiling and shell,
there’s craters in my heart where I fell,
there’s holes in each story you tell.

Please don’t mind me,
I’m just a splinter of the past.
Wandering blindly,
and hands are tied so I can’t grasp.
Just like the thought,
of giving up after giving all I’ve got,
I admit that it wasn’t a lot.

Now it’s too late to pretend
that I’m not broken; could be so easy to mend,
I’ll hide the shatter point where you made me bend.
I’ll return to my other fix,
it succeeds in dulling my heart with it’s mind tricks,
a perfect combination just mix and blend.

Nightly I lay awake
sketching scenarios involving us,
where you give and I take,
I return equal amounts; a benefit of respect & trust.
When it’s time to fill in each word,
I admit I’m aware I’m not what she deserves,
someone better who won’t lose their nerve.

‘Cause it’s too late to pretend
that it’s not plagued in every thought I spend,
should be thankful that I’m important enough to still be called friend.
And there’ll always be somebody else,
completely oblivious to a heart’s wealth,
and too focused on their self to ever expend.

We can’t fix the mistake
but we can make a new one;
drain each ocean and lake,
and completely block out the sun.

Yes it’s too late too pretend
that you’re not draped in every word I’ve penned,
even with the lowest odds I’ll still contend.
And do you see each blow and broken bone,
wishing that I’d just leave and find a home?
On me you can depend to not be alone,
do you think the same you could lend?