He came screaming into my life like a balloon accidentally,
Let loose before the knot is tied,
And his words make me giddy.
So why do the words not flow onto the page over him?
Why can I only write sad poems?

I loved you strong, with all the recklessness I possessed,
Yearned to share with you all I had to confess.
Believed it would be palliated in your pristine hands,
Watched it slip through your fingers like worthless sands.
Enamoured and imprudent, I jumped right in,
Unaware your depths were too shallow to swim.
Naïveté; my judgement had faltered,
All of my worth lay bare, and you resigned, unaltered.
Gave everything I knew with nothing left in reserve
Long forgotten it was me I should serve.

It was a hope laced channel for all the healing I desired
but you were inept at radiating the compassion required.
No understanding for this fragile task in proposition,
A rare gift to be cherished that you gave no recognition.
And there was too much exposed for you to forsake,
Too much that wasn’t earned; my calamitous mistake.
For these blood stained bones you lacked the tools to unearth,
You were never the answer to my rebirth.
Gravely inexperienced for this feat,
Your heart was too sheltered
and your mind too weak.

I gave you completely this intimate token,
But you failed to see how I was broken.

Here I am.
Standing on the edges of death.
I can't feel anything no more
The hurt and pain is just immense
I held on for too long.
I can't do it anymore.
I just can't.
Day by day
Wave by wave of pain hits me
Just one slight push.
And I guess everything will be over
But.
You.
You are what I live for.
You are the one that's still keeping me alive.  
I just hope that you don't go away.
Cause one slight push can take all of me away.

I wrote a poem for you when you were gone
It was everyone's darling; I found it feeble.

About how the leagues between diminished
when I stared up at the same stars that lit
the night where you walked. How the Earth
still revolves but we cannot feel it and we
look up, unknowing if anything looks back down.

You returned to me and I collected the pieces of your
heart, gained sight of salt leaking luscious from places
whose ignorance of existence naively I was blessed
heard words I would rather have remained unspoken.

Loathed speech fell like cumbersome bricks from
my tongue to yours, decisions took in absence
causing tectonic plates to clash and tremors be to
felt, further and wider than your eyes when I spoke.

I am sorry is a meaningless phrase. It changes
nothing and I try never to speak it, rather avoid
its crashes of consequence, freeze substance before
the impacted have little cause to celebrate
its colourless intonation.

I am sorry for saying I am sorry, but that which I am not
is for the needed swelling waves which set you far from my shore.