I wake up alone.
Conversation over air, breaching two thousand and some miles—
so much of the time, it is too much to bear.
I miss you. I am afraid that words have become tiresome.
And  I live for midnight.
Love is never wrong, even if one starves for the sake of it—
even if I am waking alone.

I have found things to be true: weakness is the monster in the dark.
The fact that it breeds strength is pure farce. However, it does breed doubt and fear and sadness all beyond recount.
Weakness has been known to be the adulterer of love, of beauty, and of bravery.
It is true that perhaps to some it is a muse—a slowly burning  fuse to something brighter, bolder, better.
To others, it is the bearer of perpetual gloom—their fuse gone cold too soon.

It went away
in the way that some things do.
The sun cannot always shine where you can see.
The rain does not always fall where you can feel.
But these things,
like it
are always bound to return.
This is the promise that every new day brings.

Beautiful Lonesome--
Beneath the weight of the day,
Lonesome can bite like ice
Lonesome can burn like fire.  
Who is she
If not a heart tainted and touched--
Something of a beautiful misfortune.

When the cold is here
Will I crumble with the freeze?

Who am I asking
When I speak to empty air
For things to change?

Here I sit
So near to tears
Upset from nothing
But still
Wanting to wilt

Can I not drift away
with the summer leaves,
we being so alike?

High winds
Always bring us down
Being so loosely tethered
To our own hearts

It would be so easy to follow
Those hollowed remains
Of this worn and weathered life

Now battered and dejected
Fallen and forgotten
Ready to ride the wind

Is it not funny
How I wish to be with the leaves?