Your perpetual state of tired
Irks me, because I want you
To be better and happy.

Your inability to fall asleep
Weighs me down, just like
Your tiredness does to you.

Your jerking body, sleeping
Restlessly, makes me wish you
Were awake and away.

From your nightmares
Which have become
As much my enemies
As yours, by now,
But which I do not
Have to experience.

A never ending loop of either
Tired-and-nightmared, or
Day-haunted and hallucinating.  

You just want it to stop and
I do too, but I don't say a thing
'Cause you're having enough trouble

Sleeping, as it is.

I sit in my house
With the door handles
Crumbling
Beneath my fingers.

I am so far
Yet I am also
Amazingly
Close.

I sit here and can
Get up and go
Whenever
I want to.

But responsibility
Beckons and Duty
Calls and I
Must stay away.

I envision them
Sleeping in close
Proximity and
As peaceful as they get.

One of them always
Tells me that
Jealousy
Is the worst emotion.

Now I can understand
Why he said that - it's
Self destructive,
And I am so close.

Of the mole
I had
In the middle of my neck.

It was pea-sized,
And brown
And slightly dangerous.

So they took it off
And all that's left
Is a faint, barely seen scar.

As I examined my
Wounds Of The Day
In the mirror, I noticed
The scar again.

I had not remembered
It was there, or that there was
Ever a mole, by which
It was caused.

It's not a secret, deep and
Desperate enough, for me to
Tell my friends about, so they
Don't know I had a mole.

But it did happen, and was
A prominent feature,
Of my earlier years.

I find it odd,
That such a thing
Can be just casually ignored.

I find it logical,
That such a thing
Will be just casually ignored.

But the cluelessness
Of those closest
Awes me still.

I. My knife is poised and ready,
I approach the easy ones first,
The nicely shaped ones which are
Flat at the bottom and round on top,
Only then moving on to
The misfits, the oddly shaped ones.
I criss cross cuts over their shells-
You will open up to me,
The cuts promise.

II. I cut them open
And thought about them.
I stole one, tore it apart
And put it in my mouth.
It was warm, and sweet,
And good, and,
I thought,
They'd probably like it.

III. The looks on their faces
As I deliver them more
Of the warmth.
As they take them into
Their hands, their
Fingers closing around
The miracle look-a-likes.
The rhythm of my feet
As I take out the remains
And eat them, on the way
Away, trying
To making myself feel better,
Failing.
They leave only
A bitter aftertaste.

IV. And in a few years
It will be a proper winter day
And we'll all have free evenings.
It'll rain, and we will decide
To spend the free time
Together.
We'll watch a movie, or
Something.
Or something.
And I'd buy chestnuts
On my way back home and
We'll eat them
Together.

Two years
Since my fists pounded
On the figures of book characters
On my wall.

Two years
Since my fingers plucked
Monotonously at strings
As I let the melody fill me
And the tears course down my cheeks.

Two years
Since I dialed the phone
Repeatedly, searching, in vain,
For someone with whom, I hoped
I could share my pain.

Two years later,
My fists,
My fingers,
My cheeks,
Need not suffer anymore.

For I have found the ones
Who would answer my call,
And even though they can't replace her,
They help to cushion the fall.