You listen to love songs
to make yourself cry;
like a drunk with his finger down his throat
luring the origins of his throes to the surface
and out the way they came.
but it's not the same.
because after the deed is done,
the drunk is left with empty eyes
and bottles.
somewhere to start.
While you're left with a
dripping heart
and not a single space left untouched
by your coal-covered fingers,
still warm,
telling the ice in your eyes
to run down your
dripping heart.

the melancholy snow-melt fills the cavities clawed
by your pulse.
the runoff gaining speed and reasons not to stop;
until the reflection of a smile
freezes your form once more.

The white spots in your eyes wane
as you see the cycle;
but you still don't notice the rain
is just a disciple
of the patterns that be.
Because you haven't listened long enough,
Because those love songs still play
and distract the usual numb,
and because in the furthest reaches of your
solitude
you still feel like you're being watched.