Today we didn’t talk at all.
That was har,
But they say it will be good for me.
At least when I know in full how far I fall
From your graces.
Looks like I’ll be up ‘till around three.
The night gives no mercy to the sad,
No rest for the weary,
Only deepens the soul searching thoughts that
Always seems to mix the good and bad
Within the dark.
So sleep flees as the mouse from the car.
It’s him isn’t it? He has me beat.
What about him
Compliments you so well? Where do I fail?
Does he bleed ink for you upon a sheet
of paper? Past open
Red. Reading of a future that slowly grows pale.
I bet this is all just self fulfilling prophecy,
That I kill us with my pen.
Tell me, where is the problem with love at this age?
(Damn) there, that word again, it keeps coming up from the sea
Of rhetoric in me.
Just appears in ink; dark as death upon this page.
If I don’t understand, how can I feel it?
There is little reason,
At least that is how it now appears.
No don’t get up and go away, please, just sit
And hear me out.
Just very quick before it all disappears.
People say many things about what beauty is not,
But not what is it.
We are, thus, confused for a while:
They stop at what the zeitgeist calls 'hot,'
Never looking further.
Or perhaps going just far enough to see a smile.
If it were your smile, that would suffice,
But you don't stop there.
You open up a past that is hard to bear,
And yet every day you go on, not being tempered like ice.
Not everyone could do that.
That one time I dyed the roots of your hair,
You saw a small piece of my soul,
And showed me tender eyes.
Hope rustled in the fallen, dead leaves of my past.
So you started to fill in, bit by bit, the hole
I've had for years.
That weekend we started something I hop'd would last.
But back to beauty, you are its personification--
and I a troll.
You always worry about others, not you.
People flock to you for a feeling of elation,
Fulfilled for a bit.
You have a joviality of spirit that is so true
As to turn a gray sky blue again.
Why you? Why me?
Why and how did it ever come to this?
It seems you are a Muse to me, all this from pain.
Always you asked
If I was fine, I lied and told you all was bliss.
Is it unfair to ask you if you will be mine,
that I may be yours?
I know I said December, but it hurts too much now.
Don't answer yet. Until you do I can pretend it's fine.
More to say that you should know,
But don't let what follows change how
You answer. At least feel no guilt or fear.
I won’t lose you.
But until next year I might have to leave, go away--
Excepting your play, I hold you to dear
to miss that.
When I'm ready I will come back, one day.
If you need me in that time, just text me
saying so.
Or you know where I live, my door's open.
God, this is hard, I can't just flee.
But I need space...
Not that you have held me in any pen;
Just that I'm a fool and wait for
any response from you.
It would seem I am bad for us...