i know it’s not actually any of my business, but i noticed that you're sighing an awful lot lately,
and you just look so tired and upset that i have to ask: are you alright?
if not, how can i help?

and i see it, this rapidly morphing display of emotions behind your eyes.  i know what it is without a seconds doubt because i do the same thing when faced with these questions.

first, you soften ever so slightly with the smallest notion. that ‘god yes, i need a hand here,’ look.

but is turns corrective as you think,
‘but, that would be too selfish to ask.’
this look is bitter.
i feel it more than i see it.

then, at the last moment, your eyes speak so loudly of defeat that i could hear them from across the building if i were listening hard enough,
and my hearing is quite poor.

but, even so you say
yeah, no, no.
i’m alright, love.
just not sleeping much,
what with work and all.
thank you,
anyway.

and it’s so **** hard not to shout defeat, myself, faced with something i so deeply empathize with,
yet still am unable to aide.

stop smiling for me.
we’re so filthy with grief and doubt that we lie to each other for no reason.
stop thinking that simply because i have pain, yours is
inoperable, redundant,
non-noteworthy.

if you are hurt, please cry, or scream, or do anything besides smile because to me it just looks like a sad mask.

all i see is myself in that, and you know how much i despise myself.

i want you to tell the truths i already sense, for your own sake. even if you don’t want advice, for the love of whatever benevolent god is listening, let me at least hear your burdens.

spill your guts so i can help you clean up the mess the way you always help me with mine.

signed,
your extremely worry-sick friend.

sometime after the sun finally set,
i found you out by the side exit steps.
i knew it'd been ages since we spoke,
so i asked you, how've you kept?
have you eaten, have you slept?
me? yeah, yeah. just out for a smoke.
i'm fine today too, 'cept since i woke.

oh, that lonely, lucid loungefly,
where is it her line does lie?
wastes away, does or dies,
spends her time awry.

despite, weren't we prior
queued up in line to give rise
to some ancient, vengeful choir?
to watch them waken, chant, reprise.
perched in our own ****** pyres,
we many tragic beasts in disguise-
with no true thanks to the liars-
sigh such weathered cries,
'keep fueling your fires.'

and while a tear snuck down his face like a falling star in my peripheral view,

he choked out,

"what i wouldn't give
to make it easier for you."

muses sent a running start,
warmth upon your brittle heart.

baby steps, play your part,
bloom into a work of art.

i wish i were digital.
technicolor, high definition,
modern perfection.

but i’m stuck in analog.
where i feel colorless, shapeless,
and outdated.