Watching you being there,
tasting the smell on your mouth,
makes me uneasy.

Yet in your absence I wait for you with nervous hands,
for I tell myself that only
you being there
can make me whole.

I loathe the way you caress me with mahogany eyes
as if there is more inside of my heart than coal.

The constant battle between my-selfs become tiring
paired with the
war against your
fathomless,
ordinary,
spiritless,
love.

Achilles never fought as fiercly against Hector
as I do against my brutish thoughts.

The silence gets so loud sometimes
and my hands won't stop trembling
with the fear that I might be right.

I whisper to myself to wait another night.