I've tried every drug I could get my hands on;
I've tried every hobby that interest me;
I've tried to play every instrument loud;
but, none could save me.

I've raised the base of every bottle,
but, that, not even that could save me.
I've drenched my body with countless glasses -
glasses full of hangovers, and that -
even that cannot save me.

I've tried everything, yet -
the feeling of loneliness is the loudest,
and nothing seems to save me from it.
It's weighing heavy on my chest, and I'm hoping;
hoping someone, something, anything -
saves me from this stagnant, empty feeling of worthlessness.

Usually, I let words come to me,
tonight; however,
I am going to formulate something.

I am tired of whining about love - the lack of it,
really;
in my life.

Tonight, I'll whine about, countlessly, contemplating.
Countlessly desiring;
countlessly yearning;
For - your physical touch.

My placement of my hands on yours.
My placement of my hands on your body.
My placement of my lips on yours.
My placement of my lips on every crevice of your body.

Tonight; I whine about yearning to touch you.
I whine about your lips, softly - sensually;
rubbing on my face, lowering -
Mine, rubbing on your forehead - as you lower;
down -
my body.

Tonight; I whine about my lips, yearning -
the taste of your body.
Your skin rubbing against my tongue;
Your skin, satisfying my taste buds.

Tonight; I whine about the love my body has for yours.
The love in need of no words;
the love only touch understands.

Tonight; My body wants yours.
I hope you are shivering, in hope -
that our bodies will quench the thirst causing tension between us.

It has become impossible -
to be optimistic, about love.

Each day goes down as the last.
Each night is as cold as the next.
Each venture collapses as the last.
There is no sustainable pleasure,
no sense.

Love has become a cynical public display.
It's not the love I grew up desiring from what I heard from poets.
It's not the love I grew up to treasure and search for.
This love is materialistic; a show off.
This is madness, not love.

This love is for puppets.
It's for two soulless individuals; figurines.
This love has no meaning;
no romance;
no affection.
This love is not for me.

The love I desire would never be completed -
if it were to be written.
But I will - someday,
write that love, and carve it with my lips;
on her, who will wake up beside me;
each morning;
and lay beside me, each evening.

I don't know how to whine or cry about it.
It feels like misery.
Something I deserve, something I don't deserve.

I don't know;
Is it all the sins of being hopelessly romantic? -
That the one time I find myself the ideal mate,
I lose her; for my sins. I blame my sins.
My wasteful sins.

I've wasted many-a-hearts.
Unrequited.
Not interested.
Really.

There she was. I was standing in front of a mirror.
Alone. There she was.
In a dress, long hair, a smile, tantalizing lips;
my personality, my interests, my views; a recluse - we.

Yet, alone in front of this mirror, it was She I saw.
Not I.
Her. I saw her.
She was me. I was her. We were I.
At least in the sense - in my sense - we were I.
I saw myself in her. I saw us in her. I saw her in us.
It was confusing; Aren't opposites suppose to attract?
Yet, there I was, attracted to the female version of my own mirror image.
She was refreshing. I had been alone. I am alone.
There she was, an image of me. I want to be alone with her.
I wanted.

Thing is;
Love is a minor - always childish - always unrequited.
Everything I saw was everything that never presented itself to her.
I found myself caught in an deceitful delusion.
I conformed myself into a conforming.
She was the idea that was not an idea - but became THE idea.
I saw perfect in her. Perfect in everything that was not perfect.
I saw love in everything that was not loveable.
I saw time in everything that was not worth my time.
I saw us in everything that was not us. It was never us.
She - I, trapped in a delusion.

I saw everything I wanted, but love is a minor - childish.
Everything I want was for someone else to have.
She was for someone else to have. Someone else has her.

And I;
I am alone.
I have no 'her'.
No She.

Was it the sound of my loud thoughts that troubled me?
Was it the echo - the chirping - of her voice?
Was it the image of her, her.
Was it the fable of her?
Was it her for not existing?
That loud, chirping-echoing voice; the loud thought -
Was is her, her, her who does not exist.

Being so hopeless in romance, by now;
I would have thought I'd be in love.
I should have found her.

Her.

She is beautiful;
I find her beautiful;
She finds me beautiful for finding her beautiful.
I think she is beautiful.
She is beautiful.
She is;

She has a name.
I want to know her name.
I am screaming, in agony, her name.
What is her name?
I want to know her name.

She has no name,
But she is special - she is;
There is something about her smile - her laughter;
And her smile, again - there is something about that smile;
It's beautiful.
I love staring at her, catching her gazing at me - she smiles;
I love that smile; I love that she is smiling.

But who is she;
Who is... her?
There is no her.
She does not exist.
She exists.
I have not met her, yet;
I have not. I want to. But I have not - not yet;

In this loud silence;
The loneliness is loud, it's a disturbance.
Because of her, I miss her;
There is no her.

Not yet.
And the Lonely is loud. It's a landmark;
I am cold, even on the warmest of days; I - I - am cold;
I am cold, because I do not have her.

I should be laying beside you,
with my hand between your legs,
my head on your ***** - while listening to you
murmur out your dreams.

I should be laying beside you,
carving your sleeping body
with things I would like us to do;
to each other when you wake up.

I should be laying beside you,
listening to you tell me about the times;
in your life;
when you and I were strangers.

I should be laying beside you;
for when you and I were born,
the empty sides of our beds -
are place holders for when we are finally together.

I should be laying beside you,
because that’s where I want to be right now;
juxtaposed your body.

Giving you up,
You belong to the world -

not with me.

the world keeps turning;
with each turn,
I
in turn
turn away from you
and your awfulness
your ways
your rejection of me.

you enjoyed stumbling
recklessly falling and breaking;
whatever remained of my love
- my awful, broken love.

with each sunset -
I see you - setting with it
being the darkness that is my discomfort
the pain that lingers on
eating bits of me.

you are clumsy -
a person of the world
- I
well, I
- a person of the boundaries
of the tortured soul
that clings on the sanity
that is, love

the world has you -
I have nothing - nothing
that is you.

- nothing of you;
******.
The world has you - not I.