it's 2:34am
and all I can think about is the way you said to me:
"if anyone's going to leave, it's you"
because it burns in my mind when I write it on blank paper
and then i get mad
the paper looks so empty
why is it so messy
where did i write these words?
i find myself writing your words unacknowledged
just in the centre of a white page
and the white is only matter
it gets swallowed by gravity
the words a black hole with it's own gravitational pull
any matter, anything that ever mattered
you
it will find a way to pull it in
**** it dry
unless it's dust, almost nothing
not complete nothing
but something of something
that's when it stays
like feelings
lingering on as long as they can take
not even to consume them fully
but almost, never quite
exactly
if you look closer at the stars
you can see faces and the more sips i take from this bottle
they remind me of your dark eyes
and not in some increasingly overly done romanticized fashion
but more so in a
'you spark interest in me'
and
it hurts to be inspired by anything else these days
other than
you
i guess
more so the hope of you
which is, by the way, just as lively
as the idea of mythical creatures
the most anticipating satisfaction to admiration is the thirst for something unrealistic
you to be real one day
i would drink you to the last drop
and i'd still be thirsty
but i would never want to consume you
i would never want to run you dry
even in the end
there's dust left