Watching the stars from open windows
Bleaching the vast expanse with their bright white
Dead pan eyes search for arms to hold
I am ready (aching) to tell you all my secrets
Can you feel them whispering along the soft flow of your skin?
My ink and curled cursive do not convey my desperation
I can feel your darkness calling
Like an old friend I used to know
Memories of tongues of others
Blowing softly away into the night
I need to answer
Never glittering long enough to wade through these old cemeteries
Digging up new blood and bones
Schizophrenic tendencies
Psychotic rants
All revealing in their puzzled masquerade
Much more than their design ever intended
Still believe I am no victim?
Myth and man blend into a singular, desired being
His visage one of torment and sadness
Punctuated harshly by those of hope and pure. liquid. heat.
I am coming for you.
Almost there.