There are times,
too far many,
the spaces between them are fading,
becoming slivers of slight reassurance.

But there are times,
when I no longer feel like a person,
no longer feel human,
cold to the touch and lifeless.

There are times when I fade into the background,
far too many,
watch the people pass by.
Sometimes, I muster the courage,
let my fingertips ghost along the skin of their arms.
Watch the bumps form, fear lingers in my eyes.

Most don't turn,
they're used to us.
They don't leave a glance, don't turn,
don't face us.
It's disgust, but also fear.
They don't want to become like us,
hollow, spaced and cold to the touch.
They like warm, soft skin, glowing white teethed smiles
and lively eyes.

But, there are some, who turn around and leave a lingering glance.
Most don't see us, let their eyes leave us before they're focused.
They fear us, they're young, they don't understand.
Most of us feel twinges of guilt when they're startled,
turn on us wide eyed with panic swarming in their eyes like hornets.

The others, they're different.
There's a few, the ones who take the time out of their day,
smell the roses and are grateful for the small things.
Never take advantage, always gentle, kindred souls.

They don't flinch when they feel cold grate against their warm skin,
don't flinch when they meet the putrid hollow of our gaze.
Don't run away, don't break out into a cold sweat.
Most smile, a warm, friendly grin with paint white smiles.


I used to believe he was one of them,
would guide me from the dark of the background
into the light and introduce me to life.

At a minute till three,

that's when the demons come for me.

They come in all shapes and forms,

forked tongues and chariots of rotting thorns.



They come to my makeshift stand of vials,

but tonight they look displeased.

"Needs more, needs more, needs more,"

they glare with hunger.

"What does it need?"

I'm beginning to sweat desperately.

One with a rotted forked tongue and acid eyes stares at me,

waves a skeletal hand and they merely leave.



The next batch I bring,

it glows a brighter, toxic green.

They come hungry, slithering and crawling.

They ask me what's in it, forked tongues and skeleton fingers sprawling.



I grin and say,

scorn of a grandfather,

shame of a grandmother,

dying pride of a father,

and the lingering hope of a ***** mother.



They buy me out,

one even whispers,

"How stout,"

and they lick the green out of the vials,

all  clean.



But that's alright,

this is what I wanted.

But sit tight,

even though this story is over;

the next one begins in brighter, maybe even perfect

fields of red clover.

It's 70 degrees in the middle of December.

I lie alone.

I listen to my fan drone,

I think of us.


I used to believe

it was rather indubitably meant to be.

I used to believe you would always be there,

here.

I used to believe there would never be a time,

I would never see a time when you would be through.

When you would give up.


I let you in,

you let me keep you in my own private aluminum tin.

I kept you and I loved you.


I think now,

I think of your ocean eyes,

I hear the thunder crack in the crevice of my mind,

I feel the green demons flash from eye to eye in my own oceans,

I can do nothing but sigh.



Like the heat of December,

we were flaming.

We were 70 degrees,

We were 80 degrees.



I hate you like I hate the heat of December.

In this 70 degree weather, I think of you,

I think of her.


Because I loved you, I made you go.

They ask me if I still love you.

I blush, grin and say;

of course.

Why?

Because your eyes are of the most utter ocean blue,

but other days they're the currents of the stormy grey sea.

I see a current of salty water, deep, once blue, but now a faded grey.

I see a bundle of darkened grey clouds in the distance,

and the thunder rumbles from your irises,

and I hear it pound in the back of my mind.

I wonder if you knew.

I see a spark of lightening flash, only once in a while,

while you look at her.

My throat corrodes with bile.


She says she sees green demons lurking in the depth of my own ocean currents,

and I shrug.

What am I supposed to say?

I know you think about her.

Night and day.


The hardest part,

is a generic, old saying.

If you love them,

you let them go.

If they love you enough to stay,

or to come back,

you never let go.





But you haven't come back.

He says he knows me better than he knows himself,
knows every key to every hidden lock, every crevice and crawl space, every hidden gem,
all hidden in the nook of my mind.

He says he knows,
I know.

From every inch of my mind,
to my body,
to the very pit of my sewed and bandaged heart,
he knows.

too much.