It’s 3:40 AM
and
I can’t feel my hands
but
I’m still thinking
about
how your skin would feel
under
the tips of my fingers.

thinking of you
kept me up again
and i may be
dreaming myself
through
existence,

but when you
live in my brain
but don't sleep
in my arms,
i finally
understand
distance.

Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
Somewhere, someone still believes
the promise of prosperity
the American dream
but not much really lives in Lost Angeles
**** roaches and coyotes.

Police spotlights eye-ing up dilapidated
housing developments like a ***** show.
Cops driving slow on streets
that form lines like dope trails
like they're looking for crack
on skid row
or *****
on Hollywood Boulevard
or someone to talk to
on the last train to Union Station.

Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.

A forgotten tale, ensconced in stone,
A murmered doubt, said all alone,
I preen my ears, for these little secrets,
Smothered in their prime, yet blazing with heat,
I long to know them, those long lost legends,
The forbidden stories, with unfinished ends,
For I seek the weapon, to make all enemies cower,
Hidden atop that chest, perched in the highest tower,
And so I search, through the witches hour,
I search and find secrets, the only true power.

That which I pay for, dearly -
The mattress beneath me is imagined to be your chest.
You would cradle me, the way I feel cradled by your gaze.

That which I pay for, dearly -
The lack of holy fiber, which strain to kiss my bones.
It is these very bones - how they ache.
A deep burn, down to the charred marrow.

That which I pay for, dearly -
I pain to hear your voice.
I fear it is warped by the stale heat within my brain.
Its echoes vibrating within the damp cave of my memory -
The pitch now sharp, I suspect.
It rings, a ghostly bellow - to that I cling.

That which I pay for, dearly -
Draw the line in wet concrete.
I fill it with pitch black ink when dry.
It is a line I dare not cross.

This blue pool ripples after the sporadic thumps of my heart.
I bottle it.
Fill the blue glass with beads and pearls - an effort to make this ugly thing sightly.
But it is bottled, I swear.

That which I pay for, dearly.

6.02 a.m.

sunlight pries your eyes open and i
meet you for the ****** time again and again

nothing mends and breaks my heart more than watching
you fall in love with a novel fragment of me every day


9.35 a.m.

i toast bread with both eyes closed
and i let them char like the edges of my heart

you tell me last thursday's joke
but i erupt into hilarity, anyway


3.17 p.m.

nostalgia is a side-effect of forgetting
you reminisce about knitting parties we never threw

between giggles, i wonder how your words are needles
that pick all of the right places


7.43 p.m.

this world is a stygian dystopia
but you, you are my sole scintilla of colour

i feed you blatant lies for dinner
only to let you sleep with a peace of mind


11.59 p.m.

i watch you fall asleep to the rhythm of my silence
there are all types of silences and distances
but this
this is the worst kind


please, don't forget
to remember
me.

I wonder if I have demonized you so much
Because what you did was so immoral-
So wrong, unholy.
Was it because I want to **** myself
For opening the space inside my lungs,
The space inside my heart?

I could forgive you,
But we are ******.

And I'm not in the business
Of pardoning sins.

everything is warm and alive at this time of night.
2 am, while the entirety of the town is resting
my mind is creating stories and projecting memories.

the retrospections are deep and comforting,
offering more to me than sleep ever could.
I see them in shades and hues of red
keeping me warm in a way my bed cannot.

maybe this is better than sleep

maybe I was just meant to think
instead of dream.