We found it funny
that our shoes and shirts matched.

We heard people ask if we had planned it
and we told them we had not.

You also matched me shot for shot, until we lost the ability to count
and we decided it would be best to stop drinking.

In your bedroom I matched you kiss for kiss,
until our lips could not satisfy us anymore.

Breathe for breathe,
****** for ******,
moan for moan,
we matched and we matched and we matched
and nobody asked us if we had planned that.
If they did, we would have told them that we did not.

And now,
when people look at our lips
and necks
they will not need to know if we planned it,
because the matching of our hearts was planned
and perfected, and practiced.
Not by us,
yet we enjoy the rewards.

It's not like I was trying to get away.
I knew
that this road
was going to hit a
dead end.
I didn't want to get caught up
in this head on collision
of what I thought was a
soul connection
rather than just
false intimacy.

I thought that when we touched
it was a charge
that could light up the solar systems
or these streets
and
in our eyes
or fill our veins
with an adrenaline rush
that could only amount
to the closest feeling
of feeling alive.

But I don't want to feel this real again.

Take two of this movie scene
that I never asked to screenplay
and I'm tired of the same plot twists
again
and again.
I'm not your cheesy script
waiting to be denied and burned,
tossed and scrapped.
I don't want to be a torn piece of
anything.

But hey,
at least we had fun while it lasted.
don't expect for me to not
feel a little ashamed
or blame you
for doing what you do best:
"Attention *****-ing"
your life
while dropping
everyone who
mattered
behind
anyways.

I discovered I cried at night
With you laying next to me. My pillow wet and cold.
Staring. At your shoulder.
Beckoning to hold a piece of me.

The heat from your body burned
My light leaves,
And I shiver as you wake.

Speaking through a dream.
Wish I could sleep.