i will stop writing poetry like a eulogy when you start making me feel alive

I'm tired
of missing you
when you're
right next to
me.

A statistically probable Car crash
tore open the night with the screams of twisting metal.
The phone calls, the text messages,
that threatened to tear apart my world,
that tore me from my apathy,
and made me feel again.

A statistically probable Break up
tore apart a dear friendship with empty words and tears.
The misunderstandings, the contradiction,
that nearly pulled me under the waves
into the sea of my depression,
to drown me there slowly.

A statistically probable smoker
torn between two sides of of a pained and troubled coin.
The spitefulness, the empathy,
that threatens to bury me in another's pain,
and smother my last shred of love,
leaving me cold and hard.

When you look at the troubles life lay before you,
Sometimes you cannot deny the troubling truth,
That we are all statistics to be calculated,
rarely less, rarely more.

i fall off the planet for weeks at a time,
everyone's wondering why
where's she gone? what happened?
i'm probably just somewhere napping
i''m probably cuddling up with the man on the moon
and smoking blunts with all the stars in the room
i'm probably taking rounds of shots
i'm not cutting anybody off'
just consider me absent and forget me til we meet eyes again
meanwhile im gonna be making new friends
with martians and mushrooms
i'll probably be dead soon

I am always
perched
on the edge of the
seat
because you
take up too much
space
- yet it's
somehow
still better
than
standing.

All I ever got
out of loving you
was a snog and a
fuckload
of poetry.