It's 1am,
And sleep just can't stop,
The flow of thought,
28 degrees,
And I'm still cold enough,
To need winter sheets,
6 more weeks,
And I won't feel it,
Not at all,
Because I won't think,
2 more months,
And I won't have the words,
To explain this despair,
Or, like in this fevered moment,
There shall be too many,
That bleed from my mind,
Into new verses,
That make words seem useful,
Though they hold no purpose,
Because words, letters,
They do not suffice,
I need slamming doors,
Blood-stained fingers,
Old clocks that tick tock,
Shredded manuscripts tinted with age,
Broken glass,
Just something other than this

Why is it,
That whenever I need someone most,
They seem to disappear,
To evaporate into a substance,
Thinner than this stale air,
Leaving me,
A mess