I forgot how it felt.
The aching of a chest as I lean over my patio wall.
Having an affinity with the dust in my throat
That burns along side of my eyes
And you dont know,
But it was worse when you left.

Five.
My dark blue comforter.
My closet door.
The light switch.
The cigarbox on my night stand.
The ***** laundry in my hamper.

I forgot how it felt.
To not breathe when trying to catch as much of the stale air in my bedroom as I could.
Residing there were residual hearts in residual pieces.

Four.
My sheets
My bed frame
The rough carpeting
My cat who disappeared because of the noise.

I forgot how it felt to feel like youre dying.
When anxiety turns into losing your ******* ****.
Because you lost it and you're alone.

Three.
The hum of a ceiling fan that barely works
Scratching of a pen on paper
My breathing and soft whispers that dont matter.

I forgot how it felt.
To feel useless and filled with an intense self loathing
Because I saw your eyes lined with red and watched you walk away - my voice not carrying to call you back.

Two.
My (your) pillow.
My comforter.

I forgot how it felt
To close the door and fall to the floor because I didnt work anymore.
And to know, buried deep under this weeping,
That you wont forgive me.

One.
Salt.

I forgot how it felt.
To feel like I'm dying.

Its sitting here,
Right in my soul.
It was silent before and let my heart run wild
And now, oh beauty at rest,
Wake for yet again you have made a terrible mistake.
Weep for your taker and live for thy giver,
For you were no one's to have.
And yet youve promised the moon to a lover
Unto which you can only offer the stars.

She's got me again.
Pushed up against the doorway.
And its so warm inside.

My breath, you can see,
Shaking against the winter
That seeps into her eyes and settles in her bones.

Her fingers line my shoulders
And fidget their way to my ribs
Where flowers do grow but never stay for dinner.

And I dont stop her
Because she holds me above water sometimes.
And I dont really want to drown.

I do not wander, not have I
Slept and rolled
O'er the nights in my bed, in my mouth,
Thoughts of instinctive delight of other beds,
Of other hands.
What next shall we deny ourselves?
Blissful incompetence - a mediocre understanding of an afternoon
So solemn in guilt
Of what we have or have not done.
For the past hears the future under your electric voice and eyes that delight me not.
Excite me not.
To learn, to yearn, to sleep under trees and under sheets.
But in your sheets I am absent.
In these trees I do sleep.
And do I dream?

Thine own dreams shall dreamers be,
And enlist in the tides of mockery.