I'm not tired, but it feels so **** good to close my eyes,
Letting the thin veil of flesh spill over, cradling my senses.
It's dark out, so there's no red-orange reflection from the harsh, burn-out of a sun.
Just the nakedness of my eyelids, and the musky scent of twilight enveloping the room.
I only feel alone when my eyes are hidden beneath my veiny translucent skin and soft blond eyelashes.
A safe haven from memories and obligations,
I'm not tired but it feels so **** good to close my eyes.
My half meant promises lament in the daylight, and darkness still  isn't enough to chase them off,
Not quite, at least.

The windowsill is slightly dusty,
Just enough to push absence into an idea.
There's a lone cobweb, only recently abandoned.
The screen is popped open, and a small breeze escapes the thick velvet curtains.
Nothing's changed.
When you were here, there were still cobwebs
And traces of dust,
And velvet curtains covering busted screens.
Nothing's changed outside the window, either.
There's still a big, dry lawn
Full of imposing weeds and lavender.
The flowers are blooming now,
Their fragrant scent comes in through the window,
Imposing it's presence,
Existing.
Nothing's different for the cobweb,
For the screen,
The curtains,
And the flowers,
They aren't affected by your absence.
They didn't mourn your passing.
For them, today's another summer day,
Another day to exist,
Carry on,
Survive.
No matter how much I tell them,
Scream at them,
Beg them to listen,
They don't understand me,
Or you,
Or us.
Past tense doesn't bother them,
It doesn't tear at their souls
Whenever "was" replaces "is"
Or "knew" replaces "know"
They're too preoccupied with the present,
With existing,
With life.
Their lives didn't stop when yours did,
And now they mock me
With their oblivious,
Unaffected existence.
Dead, in their own way.
Memories dance about their lackadaisical corpses.

From the past, my heart has bounded
Into the darkness, future allowed it
To grow and thrive in a stagnant fountain
With memories and parasites soaking it, shrouded.

Until the day when words grow weary,
And passion and pain express themselves dreary,
I must continue my profitless query,
Allowing my raw, wrestless hands to steer me.

For the past has a sweet and sticky smell
Resting in the heart of it's contunuous well,
Screaming and thrashing, beckoning me to sell
My soul to myself, in this bottomless hell.

The deal has signed itself through omission,
My very existence, the rim of permission
Creating the pull of art and submission,
Filling my mind with artificial ambition.

Darkness never boasted exposure,
Instead it's wet walls comforted closure,
Repeating misguided love over and over,
For luck is for pennies and distorted clovers.

My pen, my temple, my rusty bronze chains,
My lifeline, my mother, the noose from which I hang,
My disguise, my outlet, the scrawled figures of my name.
Nothing hurts more than having to refrain.

The rough caress of memories is too much,
Too stale,
To obvious
For your name,
Your scent,
Your causal way of existing.
Lines dedicated to you,
Eulogies dedicated to you,
Tombstones and sentimental quotes
Etched on bare, mournful flesh
All dedicated to you-
They aren't real enough,
Honest enough,
Cruel enough,
Beautiful enough
For reality,
For your existence.

It's not falling in love that scares me,
It's the falling out of it.
You know, the feeling that creeps up on you,
Like a tear in nyolon stockings, or an old knit sweater.
Not a big obnoxious ****, but a tiny run that eventually dismantles the entire garment,
Leaving it forlorn and impossible to wear.
Tossed aside in an old wastebasket, only to be taken out for reminicing.
We're destined for that kind of falling apart, I think.
I know it isn't fair, but it's inevitable,
And the more we try to avoid it,
The longer we pretend it doesn't exist,
The harsher it becomes, catching us off guard.
Slowly infesting the shadows of our doubts,
Until it takes over, leaving us naked
Face to face with the unwraveling truth:
Nothing that lasts is beautiful,
And nothing that's beautiful lasts.
For, every time "I love you" is uttered,
The fabric between us wears a little thinner,
Exposing our flesh to the unforgiving coldness of leaving.
Making us vulnerable in the worst kind of way.

Once I threw a rock
Into a river,
So I could watch it
Fall.
Then I left,
But the rock stayed,
And made me feel
So small.
So now I never
Go near water,
For fear of getting
Wet.
And as for the rock,
It lays there,
Drowning.
And still, I can't
Forget.

Midnight was made for broken hearts,
For lying awake with the lights off,
And retracing memories that never happened.
It's easier to love when you're alone.

Midnight was made for the broken hearts,
For whispering forgotten promises,
As if uttering them will drain them of their potency.
It's easier to love when you're alone.