You, my dear
are a work of art.
One of those abstract strange ones,
that everyone knows is great.
A work to be interpreted, and appreciated by the best.
Unfortunately, to me,
you are just a blue square.

"I'm so sorry, bartender?"

"Is this a fear and apathy on the rocks? Because I could've sworn I ordered a **** and confident blended?"

Your alarm is ringing.
Did you hear me?
It's ringing, no chiming, maybe beeping,
just get up and turn it off.

But it's warm in here.
But I'm kind of wrapped up and sweaty.
But I really didn't sleep that well.
But last night, when I fell asleep,
I thought tomorrow would take an eternity to arrive.

I thought 'this time, I'll close my eyes, and really get lost"
This time the swarm of warm blankets will swallow me, right down into the center of the Earth.
It's warm there too isn't it?
I don't want to wake up,
and be 'just me'.
I'm so plain and mediocre.
So tired of feeling sorry for myself and to weak to do much about it.
I thought last night, that maybe if I had a 'you',
I'd feel a little stronger and a little less scared.
I thought that just as the covers tried to swallow me,
I'd stick out an arm, and you'd keep me from being ****** in.
That maybe even if you were sleeping,
I could just put my hand on your shoulder,
or my pinky around yours, and you'd keep me there.

I think if I could just have a 'you',
a whoever 'you' are,
the morning wouldn't hurt so badly, and the night
wouldn't be an anticipation of morning,
and the day not a long and convoluted path to the night.

I though last night, this morning would feel different.
I thought for once I wouldn't get swallowed, and sweaty, and scared.

I hoped for something to hold onto, and as those hope reliably failed,
as those hopes always do,
I hoped this morning wouldn't come.

A selfish boy, a wise boy, a fearful boy once said...
"Love is a cruel chemical trick"

A hope filled girl, a foolish girl, a stubborn girl said back...
"You are clueless,
or selfish,
or immature.
Unaware of anything other than your own joys and struggles.
Never aware of the shirt from anothers back,
only aware of the poorly fitting nature of it on your body.
Accustomed to the graciousness of the naive and hopeful.
Bitter, sarcastic, reclused and estranged.
Innately, enviously attracted to light.
To those who ridiculously obsess over love,
who believe beyond reason
in the good in others,
in the good in you."

I guess I'll just sit and think of you.
Of my sorry existence.
Of my fear of it's demise,
of the resulting plunge into the dirt and unknown there after.
Of how I wished I were.
Smarter, stronger, quicker, wiser.
More beautiful.
More self-serving, or more self-less.
Something other than this uncomfortable in between.
Something other than me.
Loving some on other than you.
Knowing I've fallen or tripped,
maybe clumsily stumbled, the same way I always do.

I wish I could hurt you, and tell you not a thing you felt was real...
Not the salty sting of your tears on your freshly slapped skin,
Not the burning trail of warmth and moisture they leave on your bruised cheeks
Not the painful earthquake sent across your skull as your lip trembles and you begin to cry in anger, and in fear
Not the dull headache that will lull your shaken heart to sleep
Not the feeling like your ribs truly are a cage to you breath deprived lungs
Not the physical exhaustion of you giving up
Not the emotional defeat sinking you into prayer,
that maybe if you curl up tight enough, you will keep shrinking
into a dot
until you disappear.

None of it was real,
I'll never say it was,
because it wasn't.

Cheers to being paralyzingly afraid of death,
but saying,
"I can't wait for this day to be over"
Have a drink.
In celebration of the end of the day,
in melancholic terror for the end of your life.