We only connect when you cry it seems. So many different stains on this bed, and I wish you were here when I was happy, but not smiling; Any of the moments that would be cheaper for sharing, but stained if you were there, now. Here, now.
I wonder, (now, and not often) if those sheets hold more tears, or *** fluids, or sweat. I don't dream anymore, however.
I've never had a beautiful dream about us, and when I did we were awake and a long time ago we shared that common dream. You don't even feign interest in me anymore.
You watch me starve and carve myself into morsels, easily digestible fragments, and then turn over and, maybe praying, though we swear we don't believe in god, that I'll die mad and half naked in your sleep.
Some trees bear flowers and you'd swear they die in winter and may never blossom again. They freeze and turn into wonderful spidery things; fingerbones strewn haphazardly on some streetlight. Petals that were pink like new flesh, rotten out of mind and existence. I wonder what the blossoms become when the tree sleeps.