I sit.
Fragments of myself spilling,
making mockery of gravity,
splashing across my empty ceiling...

and i can feel it.

I have a teacher that reminds me of you.
Hes funny,
and he wears sweater vests--
and even though you're nearing what you think of as "old",
i've never felt laughter so young.
It's all i hope to return to.

Come on now,
sit,
indulge in this dream.
Don't even worry,
It's buried underneath.
Where i lie,
and i don't know you anymore.

Seeing this makes you so much bigger than me.
You are the sore thumb sticking out amongst the digits,
as mine are being slammed in your door.

seeing you in his photograph,
newspaper,
bleeding in black and white.
red ink staining my skin,
as i wonder which parts of his you've touched.

Pouring something...
like worn clothes,
never reaching that stationary mask.
that we made.
that you wear.
like it was a dare,
you just don't care...
I'm not really torn,
you weren't really rare,
and were never ******* fair.
the thoughts i will sever,
the wounds not so sore.

I never really knew we just couldn't last together.

and now you've shut your door,
and i can't help but picture myself,
standing here before
when i came to you
and asked you for just
one minute.