I am grieving for a ghost without a grave,
His self is still surviving but his soul I could not save.
My medicine is the memories in my mind,
They weigh me down with worries, what ifs and whys.

Awhile after he left I hadn’t the need to fall nervous of the night,
Before it’s coldness cruelly cut my courage like a knife.
Gentle gravity, I grasped hold for anything he gave,
But he lacked the love, leaving me only with his lusting lave.

Yes, I know I should’ve walked into a colour without a shade,
This abuse approached me like abstract art arrayed.
Obviously these stars in the night will always outlive me and wring me out to die,
But I’m not going to let them get to me, no not this time.

I want you to want me. But I don't want it blindly, or full of grandiosity.
I am willing to work for you. To build something new... if that's what you want to do. At times my ideas are a childish. It's a defect that I can admit. But honestly, I've grown a bit. Sometimes I want to question your motives, and mentally wrestle what my role is. However, I know that behavior is erosive. Sometimes I want to ask if you're just playing, if your language is crafted or just what you're saying. However, that's a game of shaming . I won't let my insecurities cause this to ruin. Because I don't want your golden token. I really just crave your human. I want you to show me your brusies and scars, up close and personal, not from afar. And in my mind, write your memoirs.