Just kids,
i'm missing the taste of blood
in my mouth.

Skinny arms
draped over my shoulders
followed by loneliness.

Now,
with an unrecognized face,
I walk these halls with regret.
Knowing,
that forgetting
is not an option.

It's a shame,
not realizing what we have
until it's gone.
dried up worms decorate the side walk,
leaving the dirt,
nearly abandoned.

As machine work does,
I'm refueled each morning
with three pills,
replacing emotion
with steal.

you'll grow back,
as everything does
in the spring.
*******,
as we remembered that we no longer knew
how to love each other.

a cycle,
of becoming strangers.

Poetry is often associated with
the romantic,
the candle lit,
the girl with flowers in her hair;

And hardly ever with
the silent and passionate,
the mysterious
and brave.

But while it is probably
true
that those who never love
will never write,

Happily ever after
never made that good
of a story.

I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.

When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?

We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?

When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.

Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.

I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.

Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.

I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.

So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.

I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.