Go ahead then baby,
**** that guy good,
**** him like you wanted
me to *******.

Sorry I couldn't just
be your weekend man,
sorry I'm more interested
in your heart and soul
than I am your ******.

It's the same old story I guess,
playing the role I was given,
doing what I do best,
from a serious distance.

All or nothing is a bad game to play,
and I'm still playing it though,
but this time it's with you.

This is in fact a story, one worth
telling or writing or living,
but it hurts, it hurts to the point
of me wishing it weren't true.

Lost again down those empty hallways,
music in my head and your heart in my mouth,
footfalls echoing from the otherwise silent walls.

To turn about, grasping at shadows just out of reach
knowing that they have something yet to teach,
but of what and for whom they will not speak.

Brought down by hands and hearts and eyes,
hands to break, hearts to bind, and eyes to lie.

In what language do you want me to say it?
Or would hating you be more appropriate,
more in line with your appetite?

And who is that over there,
just beyond your shoulder half shown,
bearing a cowl and a mirror?

We cannot go back and we cannot get out
and who is it that shall carry whom
through the horrors of this night?

I will stay here with you though
and carry the lamp forward
as you try and ****** your own minotaur.

If I had any lingering doubts about
my feelings for you, they died tonight.

It's probably a not so healthy thing,
me not able to say what I want to,
when you and your heart mean more
to me than my own.

My life is in transit, in limbo as always,
and yet here I am, as walls crumble
about me, the walls I've built so tall,
falling at last to you.

It's time I admit how much I love you, how many nights I've spent
drinking myself into oblivion just
wishing for a single question.

Maybe, I should ask that question,
but I'm not sure, can't know what you want unless you tell me.

I'm trying, so hard, with everything
I am, but you're so enigmatic that
I don't ever know what to say.

Congratulations by the way, you've
achieved something no one else
has been able to do...
you are hurting me dear.

My absolute worst fear,
worse than being empty,
worse than insanity,
far worse than dying
broken and alone....
is that you may one day
love me, and if I gave you
what remains of my heart
and ruptured soul on that
day, it would break you.

You've never asked what my
name means, probably because
yours is so obvious that I
haven't had to ask what
yours does, or where it comes from.

You are a Fox, English in origin
linguisticly, with a very illustrious
line, stretching back to the days
before the Norman conquest.

My name, from the Low German,
is Hemlock, and that is exactly
what I am. A beautiful tree in my
opinion, but poisonous to all.

They gave of me to Socrates
as a death sentence, and on
the deeply flawed romantic
in me, the sweet irony isn't lost.

Thus we come to the truth of
my fears, deep fears, deeper by
far than the usual ones that
accompany thoughts of you.

You, in your ignorance are
intrigued by me, as you said.
Should you eat of my heart,
and be poisoned, body and
soul, the last parts of me that
believe in all that you are,
would die with you.

I sincerely hope that you aren't reading the things
I've been writing about you, praying that the
one poem of mine you read about someone else
is the only time you've come here looking.

Because this, this is my soul ripped open and
weeping before God and everybody,
and the things I say here about you
would be better heard spoken to you aloud.

I don't want to fall in love with you, can't come
so far wrapped up in my own past and find
you waiting at the end of it, wanting to explore
secret paths in the woods and build castles in the sand.

I'm not the kind of person that believes in happily
ever after anymore, gave up on an inclusive life,
gave up on bliss, and yet here you are dancing
across my mind, the memory of us together that night.

I'm not there yet, not quite in love with you, not to
the point of me taking sustenance just from your smile,
but I'm quickly on my way I'm sure, otherwise I
wouldn't be so concerned with how many times I use
the I word instead of the You word when we talk.