I go to bed each night
with your face
for reference
in my frame of mind
to discern musings of how
there is no shared
connection left
between the
dreams I have
of what could have been
over what came to pass

I mull over idealized trust
while settling into a pillow,
only to realize that it was
never anything more
than a beacon of lust

Enough
is enough,
I've had it up to here
with this ******* tragedy,
three years and counting,
filling the hollow spots
with a jagged cup
only to perpetuate
the savagery
of spilling
my own blood

When will ‘enough’
become a segue
to pass through valiantly
into new heights
where credence will
alleviate symptoms
of infinitely reaching for
a reason why I can't find
an alternate reality
outside of seeing your face
when I go to bed
each night

And after all this torture,
I think I might
put others on
a pedestal so high
that enough
could never be enough,
and after drowning in
my violent noise,
it seems that
in your silence
is where I will have to find
self-love