I can't really express much,
but think of my heart's condition as that of a bed bathed in the filtered light of a curtained window.
Small slits of optimism, amidst suffocating sheets of thoughts.

The others don't see the smile that wavers so easily,
the balance held so precariously.
A sunset postponed again, and again,
like the tide that teases
a desert with hourly breezes.

(Gosh, today's a **** writing day, isn't it?)
I feel like my heart bleeds with all the words unsaid.
I have to write something.

I don't crave the face that is yours,
nor the arms that have held so many,
since me.

I can't say my eyes have experienced drought
since you
And though it kills me to admit it,
The strength I thought I always possessed was diluted by the blood of those who felt the same
since us.
It wouldn't be lies to confide that I miss so much of you,
and that the sheer cliches of youth & love hold true now.
But still I can't find fault in myself.
I did it all.
For you.
For us.

So now it's aggressive scarring and angry eyes,
behind the company of my closest,
in front of your silence.
Prayers prayer prayers,
and waiting (in line?) for nothing less than the help that
comes
assuredly,
abundantly,
from my faith.

What the **** is wrong with you, anyway?
You're more, or less, than somebody I used to know.
You're a stranger.