Once,
a while ago,
we were
eagerly in love,
so, eagerly
we were in chains.

Once, we were members of a party.
Parts of a whole. A hopeless oath
of devotion to another, to durdle,
intimately, through the grandest lie.

Once, we were eagerly in chains.
(Now, contemptuous in disdain)
Once, we were excited to be.
(Now, that's just not what we're about)

Once, we were bonded in a gamble.

Now, we're barely willing bystanders,
no more an adventure, than it is
   a situation.

here you were,
                there you are

then you were near,
                now you are far

            nothing but a pretty scar

I fall for you
cause my heart needs love to brew
and i am aware
but i started to care
you are heavy fog of the morning
and i am of a kind that blooms in spring
I need you
to love me
cover me in this dew
I can beg you to fall
but i can't hold you at all
you'll wet everyone
but own by none

Child are you grieving
To words she is leaving
And though she gave
To you, her own knave
You seem to not care
For what was once there

The other day something good happened to me and you were the first person I wanted to call. Today sometjing terribly bad has happened to me and you are still the first person I wanted to call. But we are enstranged and pride has me looking the other side. What you said ****** me off. Partly because i was hurt.  Am still wondering if what you said about is remotely true! How can we remedy this? Can it be remedied?
It is selfish of me to just think about my feelings! Am trying to not be self-absorbant. Am working on it. Not for you but for me. It matters to me that the people I love feel safe and magical around me.  
There are things I want to say to your face. It is strange to me that even after all these time I wish only good things for you. Not to blow my own horn but I am very smooth at grudges and plotting revenge. Its a gift from the dark side.
If this hasn't come across since you started to read this then I hope it is clear now. Our sister-hood still matters to me. As cramped up and damaged as it is now, I still have pieces of you engraved in my heart.

Yours
The Red_Head

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.