i left the house just after midnight and you were returning
brief warmth as i passed you with him in the doorway
(am i wrong)worlds between us revolve in contradiction
and you played with his hands as i glanced, mourned, and departed
and it seems peculiar as time goes on that i should still think of you in this way
(what am i missing)you persist in myself,clutched to my heart like ice in my hand
and all i can think to say is that if i were to see the milky way’s circumvolution with the eyes of van gogh;
to hear a nightingale trill in delight with the ears of debussy;
enjoy the sweetest of wines and the warmest of nights;
the fiercest of romances and the harshest of wounds;
these would be to nothing
as you are to me
(and if my heart still stops when you stun my skin with your touch
and my breath
catches
deep in my chest
you,my sweet love, have moved me more than the entire heart-rending terror and beauty of existence)

She'd written a verse
   on wandering love;
      of hearts that yearned to stray--
         it spoke of home, and now I yearn
            for all that she has
               to say.

did you
      tonight
   come dance
ever believe
      is the night
   the eve
that anything
      you come
   away
could feel
      out of
   with
this right?
      your shell
   me

I'm not a fan of who I have become;
   I know, it seems absurd, even to me.
Each day that breaks I feel a bit more numb.
   Since time itself provides no guarantee
and motivation's often hard to find,
   I do not like the man I have become.
Entire empires rise inside my mind
   although I often keep them under thumb
and then distract my brain through other means -
   to chemical addictions I succumb -
allowing me to flit between these scenes,
   disliking the mistake I have become.
They follow me around with haunting glares,
   a-rattling, like snares upon a drum,
and forcing me, reminding me, to pause
   and loathe the person that I have become.
It feels as though my conscience is at war...
but harsher struggles have been won before.