Cracks in the side walk make me uncomfortable.
I guess it's because I'm only used to seeing them within my own foundation.
I think the fear stems from my fixation with filling empty space.
Maybe it's why my chest is filled with songs and poems recycling the word "love".
Maybe it's why my hands cling to empty promises like the last drop of rain in a desert.
I guess it's why a drunken "I'm sorry" makes my world spin again.
But maybe, I just fill myself up with poison to avoid feeling hollow.
Words fill me, love flees me and my heart can't divide what only exists in my mind.
In a space breeding sadness and passion in the same kiss, maybe I'm just always busy preparing a eulogy for a love that hasn't even died yet.