and really, love is the absolute worst, is it not ?

its just
                            a matter of time
                                  before you        
                                      abandon me,
                                           too.

and the question is:
why do i find myself
constantly in this pit of swirling darkness,
with only thoughts of you
consuming my mind ?

and the answer is:
you're an all-consuming thing,
and that i wouldn't change any of it.
from the first time your fingers brushed
my skin,
to
the moment you left.

i crave you,
and i haven't the slightest of clue why.
i just do, and its pathetic.
(i'm pathetic; they were right)
i find myself constantly with these letters
pouring out, forming words,
forming sentences, forming paragraphs
about you, and i know that
you'd not spare me a second glance
if our paths were to cross again.
yet i find that
everything about you, intoxicating
from the ghost smile on your lips to the
humourless laugh that resonates so clearly,
and i find that I love you, so i'll say it one last time
and in return i'll hear yours, barely there;
your soft, petal I love you, too.
(do you really mean it?)
maybe we're just not built to last.
[And our time's up so I'll leave, and I hope
that I'll be able to forgive myself for letting you go.]

you loved in paragraphs.
your lips, endless words,
the touch of your fingers; metaphors.
you loved me in ways a poet
desires.
your affection ran across the pages of my body
and i loved you to the point of oblivion.

your eyes tell me things
your mouth cannot,
they utter silent stories
to me
when I hold you close,
our face mere inches apart.

and even through all this haunting
I still find myself falling,
so fast,
and I think I've fallen
in love with you
and there's no stopping
(I don't want to)
and I don't need to
because I only need you,
flush against me.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.