The sutures of granite stone
Slip seamlessly and stand—

Ignorant of the storms that
Weather its skin—

Gold and diamond visage
Shivering—hollow—
Eyes refusing to glaze over—

Arms clasping the afflicted.

It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.

Words
Are puzzle pieces with wings,
Stubborn,
They reside
In the creative side
Of my cluttered mind.
Their hobbies include
Floating
And being
In parts of sentences
And poems
They aren't supposed to be.
They hate cooperation
But love dressing up
In vibrant
Metaphors.
They're great as pets
Though they can be a handful.
Take them on walks,
Not with
Leashes
But with pens.
So that way,
In a park made of pages,
If they ever get lost,
At least they're
Exactly
Where they need
To be.

I don't sleep much anymore.
It's the same as when we first met,
even though it's not the same.
I used to think "alone" was an adjective,
now I know it's just the state
of not fitting anywhere.
I don't fit anywhere.
There's nowhere to call home.
I hate being awake,
it just reminds me you're not here.
I hate being asleep,
it just reminds me that I'll wake up.
I don't write much anymore.
I have nothing left.
Words can't describe the 
pounding in my head,
or the emptiness in my bones.
So when you ask, "What's wrong?",
I don't have much to say besides,
"I don't sleep much anymore."

Oh, how great would it be
To fall so deeply in love
With the sky,
The clouds
Go out of their way
And firm up,
Netting themselves over the
Heavens,
In the hopes
To shelter me
From hitting
The solid groud.