I was praying that there was more to time than numbers on a clock. I was hoping that throwing coins into a well was not all that fate left us to tamper with and that maybe I could throw them into your mouth instead. How you've managed to shackle my feet with words alone, smooth as silk bindings, I will never understand. But those words are leaving red marks on my bones and I'm beginning to have the urge to gnaw at them. I have heard the clocks tick in disapproval at the hours we spend staring at the walls instead of at each other, and the sound of your foot bouncing against the floor is all to similar to the sounds of my fist tapping the wall, contemplating if it's worth putting a whole in it, around the size of the hole you put in my heart. The numbers on the clock is all that we have, so we have to make it count, so let's stop counting down the minutes until we're over and start counting down the seconds until we begin.

b.b.

Sometimes I think to myself that maybe you are actually rain and you are evaporating in the heat of the moment, when I need you the most. Those lips have eased cool words from your tongue like runoff, and your mouth has carelessly dropped beaded kisses onto my throat like a foggy window pane, and you can see through me just as easily.  And after you've stormed into my room and I've felt the thunder of your fingers shaking me to the core, you still linger on me like the smell after the first spring showers. And thoughts of you precipitate in the form of acid rain, inside my head like the ***** city downpours and my brain is just a brand new Corvet left in the parking lot. You have redeemed me, refreshed me, corroded me. I can see the lightning in your eyes every time your hands are hovering over me, and now all I can do is count the seconds until I hear the thunder.

Are you sleeping well these days? I hope so because I don't sleep anymore. There is so much to think about now; there is no time to sleep anymore, because my brain has to handle you. I wish your belt was my fingers, underneath the loops of your jeans, pulling you towards me. That tie doesn't belong around your neck; it belongs around mine. Are you sleeping at all these days? I never did. I wake up when I think you might be standing by the wall, and you never are. Maybe I will open the door and find you on your knees, coughing up blood and apologies. Do not fidget every time you remember your hand doesn't have another to hold, because then it will become a habit and you will hate me. Do not bite your nails or look at ledges you have thought about jumping. They will become habits and you will hate me. Do not form habits for your fingers to develop since they have no throats to grab. You will hate me. I never want you to hate me, not in the way that you will. The time is 3:06 AM and I hope you still love me the way I want you to.

Please stop making me love you. And while you're at it, please stop making me like you. It's hard enough to count sheep without seeing you like a wolf, disguised as innocent but ready to skin me alive when I get close.
Now and then, I scratch at the paint on the wall by my bed and observe how easily it flakes off, and I wondered if I had spent anymore time scratching your back would your skin finally start to peel so that I could see the darkness beneath it.
Now and again I savor the feeling of my stomach bottoming out when I lose my footing while stumbling down the stairs in a halfway alternate reality that starts and ends with strands of your hair in my mouth and in between my fingers. Give me the strength to love you and I will give you my unloved dog-like devotion.
I've played my cards and I've got no more hands, but I don't mind you shuffling your deck and using my back as a poker table. Come over and talk to me sometime, and you can break my neck and talk about the weather and **** time by killing me. The stars are beginning to lose their shape and soon the sun will push them all aside and I cannot wait. I never was afraid of the dark, but I'm terrified of you.

The other day I thought about you, and by that I mean that I wasn't thinking much at all. I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in it and fall asleep only to wake up to the sound of some imaginary rain hitting the roof once. I don't remember leaving my door cracked, but the wind pushed it wide open again. I imagine (I hope) I will find your arm behind the door, but for now it's just another ghost leaning on the door jamb. Your name is the first thing that comes up when I flip on every light in my house, trying to find the source of the noises I swear you're making, and your name is the last thing I can see before the bulbs go out. I'm tracing holes in the wall - holes I've created - and imagine those holes are on you and I am tracing their edges. I have to trace something these days, or the walls will fall from my knuckles fighting them too much, so I take a black pen and trace letters from my imagination and write these things down on paper, bearing down so hard that they begin to carve into the desk, so that not even the wood can forget about you.

Your eyes are the color of chocolate bars. I want to see if your lids really peel like candy wrappers, but you won't let me touch you. So I fidget with my hands and think that perhaps the smell of peppermint on your breath runs all the way down your throat and into the pit of your stomach. And if I reach the pit of your stomach, I'd probably find butterflies, but they're all dead. Your body is poisonous, after all. I'm very well aware of this fact. But if clenching my stomach in crippling pain is going to keep you flowing through my bloodstream like cheap ******, then I will drink you in twice as fast. You are a better way to die than anything I can think of off the top of my head. Undress, slowly, and in the fraction of a blind moment when you can't see me as you're taking off your shirt, imagine that I am already dead. And, when my dress pools around my feet like rainwater, take satisfaction in knowing my autopsy report will place my cause of death as your silhouette in this poorly lit room. Send me to the grave covered in love bites and lay me on the bed like you're trying to lay me inside a coffin. Bury me under your weight, our bodies resting in anything but peace.

I want you to come. I don't mean this in some sort of lustful way (although I feel some sort of passion) , but I mean in want you to come as in here. Here. You were here at some point in time, but your body was here and your mind was floating off into the ignite regions of space, regions I could only dream about, almost the way I dreamt about the day you'd stop looking through me as though I were some sort of ghost. Funny how you treat me like a ghost, but I feel so human when I think about my feelings for you and everything in respects to you. Over 70% of your body is water, but the rain doesn't feel as good as your hands falling onto my skin. Your hands tug on my shirt the same way you tug on my mind when my shirt is unbothered, but there is more to love than tugging, darling. And there is more to tugging then just my teeth on your bottom lip. There is more to anything if you dig deep enough, so I try to remember to dig deeper scratches into your back and hope that I might find my way to your heart. It's hard though, because I haven't even felt your ribcage yet.