Oh, Time, an old friend of mine.
I think I must have hurt him somehow,
Because he's working against me now.

it's not my job, and it's not my money.

this house does not belong to me.

these children are not mine,

they were not made

by me.

you are not mine and I

am not yours.

the television, the refrigerator, the sofa

are but things. not my things. not yours.

just things.

the dog is not mine, the cat is not mine

the sky is not mine, the earth is not mine.

nothing remains with me, but me.

these are my thoughts.

this is my opinion.

this is my day to be

me.

You make me feel worthless.
An old piece of jewelry once pretty
worn down by time with rust and familiarity  

Replaceable. As if any girl could rub you the right way and
Your gone, a simple game of touch-and-go that
I just can't seem to win.

When did I become so ordinary?
Am I not so shiny copper penny new?
Am I not quite so very interesting, crisply witty remarks ridden?

I look in the mirror and I see beauty.
****. Funny. Perfection.
I see you whispering pretty things into my neck
in the dark quiet of your room, muted tv light dancing over our
flushed skin.

I see you falling asleep smiling at my eyes
touching me So tender, holding me against your body.
My name escaping your teeth clenched so tight by
lust, desire, fire in your veins singing sweet symphonies
that I started.

But then I look again. and I see sub-par
Negligible. Dull. Grotesque.
I see shaky escuses to lead me to the door,
selective hearing that refuse to acknowledge heavy questions
weighing on my shoulders, leaving me so completely alone.
So. Completely. Cold.

There's one thing
I have to tell you.

I can't stop uttering,
anything about you.

Whether its about the midnight rain
and how it describes your voice so well,
or the way you won't stop singing,
till you're satisfied and sewn me to sleep.

If I look at the dark orange spotted afternoon,
or the satin red leaves of autumn.
I'll know its been a while since I've thought
of you.

If I hear the chalky barren concert of concrete,
or the uproar of the arid wind.
I'll have forgotten what your voice
sounds like.

If I feel the reticent tremble of winter,
or the cold bitter piercing destitute bed.
I'll remember why our adulation had
my heart in a headlock.

I cannot give you the world
or my name.
Because I do not own them.
All I can give you is my love and lungs,
that is all that I have and hold.

All I'll ever ask of you is for your voice and love.
You make my head lighter with just
some notes you sing.