I've never been good at
Being touched.

Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.

New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.

Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.

Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.

So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.

Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.

So keep your hands to yourself.

Voices shaping repetitive poetry
Prosper in the depths of my spirit.

Those who have came and gone
Exist within words and phrases
That have blossomed
In rejection,
And planted me in
Insecurity.

Maybe if I listen long enough,
The apologies of those that
Shower me
With disinterest
Will counter the shadow of
Apathy over my head.

Maybe then,
Will my heart get to see the sun.

Let it melt the words
That fall from excuses
And burn every empty adjective
Lingering around places
I wasn't welcome.

Because apologies have only
Cleared everyone else's conscience,
While silencing mine.

Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.

From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.

Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.

The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.

An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.

It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.

As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.

But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead

And I am only living.

Because he will
Always wait for
A muse

Unworthy of flowers.

Cracks in the side walk make me uncomfortable.
I guess it's because I'm only used to seeing them within my own foundation.
I think the fear stems from my fixation with filling empty space.
Maybe it's why my chest is filled with songs and poems recycling the word "love".
Maybe it's why my hands cling to empty promises like the last drop of rain in a desert.
I guess it's why a drunken "I'm sorry" makes my world spin again.
But maybe, I just fill myself up with poison to avoid feeling hollow.
Words fill me, love flees me and my heart can't divide what only exists in my mind.
In a space breeding sadness and passion in the same kiss, maybe I'm just always busy preparing a eulogy for a love that hasn't even died yet.

Somewhere between hopeful eyes
And clumsy smiles
Lies everything I wish I knew how to say.

Somewhere between stumbling words
And averted glances
Rests a graveyard of rhetoric,
Haunting a head anything but vacant.

If my affection is lost between shrugs of insecurity and nervous laughter,
Do the butterflies in my stomach
Stir up the words I've swallowed?

If communication's greatest grasp is
non verbal,
Does the sighing of my heart speak for
The absence within my tongue?

Somewhere between clenched teeth
And an expended explanation,
Lies everything I can't say
About everything I can't have.

If incense is burned as a sacrifice, I'm setting my heart on fire.
It starts now.

Cut the "sorry" from my lips and rip the worry from my heart.

Sever the knots in my abdomen so I can stomach the thought of you.

Make me into a memory,
Woven together like
Strands of time thinner
Than my patience
And as elongated
As your favorite excuse.

Rid me of your memory that insists on overstaying its welcome.
You aren't ******* welcome.

Burn away the scars on my conscience, but leave the ones on my skin.
At least they remind me that healing still exists.

Let it remind me
To stop pouring myself
Out like honey
For boys that only see their
Own reflection in my emptiness.

Because for you,
I would have  gone to hell and back,
Until I realized that traveling to
A land with no love or compassion
Took nothing more than a visit
In your direction.

But despite it all,
You are art
And you will never die,
Even though you made sure
My feelings for you did.

"To be wanted" is more than I can
Figuratively scream within stanzas
Shorter than the attention I receive,
Equivalent to the amount times
You silenced my regret,
Yet longer than the excuses on your lips.

In fact, I think I can still taste
The last one you left
Residing on the tip of my tongue,
Too fragile to escape.
Too nervous to change what's become
Expected from a boy with expectations
Sky high.

So let it fall.
Let it fly.
Let it sing a final goodbye
Because if love feels like a tongue
Withering away with words it can't
bring itself to speak,
And a heart emptier than your last apology,
Keep your words to yourself.