Screaming at the moon during cloudless nights has become the only form of therapy that works anymore. I'm waiting for the night it will invite me to curl up in its craters and whisper every childhood fear you brought up into conversation when I told you my memories could be used to show how words can be sharper than the broken bottles your mother lusted. Sleepless nights are sobering my head and my voice box is starting to suffer more than the Mona Lisa, but you never liked art that didn't hand you its meaning with open arms and a pat on the back. I wish time did more than rust the only things with something of value, but junkyards aren't good replacements for falling stars and forgotten chunks of metal remind me too much of the way you loved with a steel heart and icy touch. You claimed I could find refuge in between your ribs, but every cell in your body is frozen solid and I never found comfort in the way ice sculptures morbidly melt in the presence of the sun with crossed arms and a closed mind. I'm sorry my walls have grown taller than your pride, but i hoped i would be something more than a quest filled with ships meant to sink. Consequently, maps have grown to be sly creatures, and the darts i'm throwing at the world all end up on your roof without a scratch. I wanted to be more than your fading scar, and I hope you'll look at your arms one morning and realize they could be touching mine, and until you do, i'm just stuck here with nothing but a stomach full of conscience and mouth full of words i'll only scream to the sky.