Excellence indeed,
mind shorn of the heart
and it's incessant nagging.
You didn't ask why I drink
but I'll tell you anyway
because I want to.
Keep in mind though,
I'll never make the mistake
of asking why you drink.
Don't think me selfish
or magnificently uninterested,
it's just that I think I already know.
Maybe it's different for you,
presumptuous of me to assume.
Truthfully I'm not happy
with the ***** itself,
but it's the only thing
that takes me outside of myself,
the only thing that turns
off the terrible inner dialog.
Jesus Christ, all I need is one question, one sentence from you.
"What makes you think it meant nothing?"

In the inner labyrinths
when I  walk alone
a gazing benevolent  eye, I see,
the helix nebula of my origin
watching me, intently
beloved star, once a dazzling sun,
you refuse to go quietly
in to the night's ferocity
mother dear, in your core
undying love still burns
singing my favorite old lullaby.

Let me tell you a secret that I've never told anyone before. Here is the key to deciphering my own personal Rosetta Stone.

I can only ever write about things that have the most potential to hurt me by doing so from hindsight, or placing the events into another time and place, speaking from outside of myself.

So it is that I write of you now, as the wind whispers through dunes in this lonely, though not empty place. I am writing from the deepest recesses of my heart, where it is always twilight in a desert. Looking back now, I can see what seems like irony in the way the evening progressed. You needed an uplifting spirit you said, and I came following. I spent all night trying to pull you out of a sadness that I know well, and knew that it was a futile gesture. Since then I've been trying my best to forget how it felt to dance with you in a living room, for once in my life, completely unabashed. We were both drunk by then, and of course, both emotionally compromised. I shouldn't have been surprised how easily it was that our lips found each other, but I was. After hoping to the point of giving up hope, I walked into a mirage and found you there. It doesn't really bother me as much as I thought it would, believing that the night meant nothing to you. Even so, holding you for just that short time, means everything to me. I can still taste you, smell you, feel your body in my hands, and remember exactly the shade of your gray-green eyes. The irony perhaps is that I came to you that night to try and provide comfort, and somehow, it's you who pulled me up and out of the dark. Though we have no future, I'll carry that night with me forever, and when I'm alone with myself, as I am now, those memories you gave me will be enough.

Dearheart, where have you gone?
Where is the girl who rode the bus with me all those years ago?

Tears don't stain a screen the way they do paper,
but even If I wrote this with a pen I'd have nowhere to send it.

I'm doing everything I can to forget you honey, but I know that I'll never be able to. How could I, when you own so much of my heart?

You've left pieces of yourself behind;
strands of hair, a pair of shorts, a shirt, your smell upon my pillow.

Tell me now, memory of my love, how now shall I continue without regret at what ought to have been?

How may I lay next to another,
and not think of you in your need?
To the more prosaic, how can I taste another woman without wondering what other fire may consume her after all the terrible things you've taught me about needs?

You have died to me, and I mourn your passing. And a part of me...perhaps the best part, died with you.

I don't think that I have the power
to relate what I know of you
through the prism of a narrative.
I tried to tell your story yesterday
in my carefully constructed
grammatically correct way.
Failing miserably at a proper
biography, as you deserve,
I must recount what I know
in the only way I can.

Within my heart live a series of images,
memories burned into me
by the intensity of our meetings
and the ferocity of the late night
phone calls born of that chemical
with no name, equal parts sorrow and flame.

It was easy to find you,
but God it was hard to leave.
From the first kiss to the last
and everything in between.

I don't know how many times
you called me crying so hard
that you couldn't even speak.
How many times you told me
that you wanted to die without
even a second thought for what
those words did to my heart.
I accepted it all though,
every single strand of you,
gave you all the love I knew how.

There is no word for the sorrow
that comes with knowing that
I couldn't save you from yourself.
It didn't matter how many razors
I took from your trembling hands,
how much blood I wiped from your thigh
or how many tears I shed for you.

At the end, that last night and morning
just a week ago now,
you looked right through me
with eyes that didn't see.
I took you in my arms and there was nothing.
The girl I knew and loved doesn't exist anymore.

I'm sorry that you had to die in my heart,
but know that I loved you enough
for it to be killing me inside.
I guess that the boy in me is gone now,
since I walked away anyway.
I didn't cry, I don't regret it.
You're just one more ghost after all.

How to explain what it feels like,
when your soul is crumbling within,
to watch your possible futures meet eachother during the same night, and know that in order to survive,
you must leave one behind.