time amassed a repressed suffering within her. a web spun by self in recurring spiral. damp ducts unnerved by pain to come.

undoing, undoing, undone.

tied to the tracks of her own mind, darkness reminded what she tried to hide. with darcy-like swiftness, her lids danced with their partners. and as they spun to fruition, she desperately sought their  departure.

but her tears proved to be a guise for an insidious realization.
sensing this formidable familiarity, she frantically attempted to dissuade the sensation. the tunnel of her gaping dissonance rapidly encroaching, gaining traction. and with it came trappings of a brutal confrontation.

the silent torments unleashed, as symphonies of denial dispelled.
icy honesty confronting her with taunting smile.

and with baptismal movements,
these inhalations executed their mission.

the meals you never met
tasted like love.

i guess,
none were ever good enough.

as clock stretched six,
entrees were placed
adjacent to one empty seat.

ahead, my eyes bore into
a suppertime reminder
of the gifted void
you’ve left us to harbor.

but, who were you truly clocking in for?

because we sure weren’t
punching your time cards.

we saw,
every night,
at dinner time.

my pain will not dissolve with time
for love had no teacher,
and religion man-made,
these hidden truths we fail to face

a burn can be felt
the way no lesson can.
they speak to us
the way no lecture can.

chemistry passes my memory.
geometry never stayed with me.

when classes let out,
our teachers are self.

and we’ve tucked these books
beneath ****** covers.

an uncharted whisper into my neck,
i love you never forget.

that whisper took form
and those words lived on.

naively, i listened to their false promise of existence.

through overlapped lovers,
or cast out for another,
those words lived on.

it lived on when you stopped calling.
it lived on when i was nothing without you.
it lived alone with me in the dark.

alas, in time,
when you were no longer mine,
that whisper pondered inside my mind.

but buried somewhere,
lost in translation,
those words live on.

their status
forever remain
squatters.

i can’t harbor your fugitive anymore.

we are pieces of ourselves,
constantly scattered.

a generation of milk carton children
we’ve soon forgotten.

we find ourselves
in the past or the future,
though never seeming to feel whole in the present.

home is where the heart is,
pliny said.

so, i searched.

but, never did i find
a heart
in my home.