Miserably, I'll cling to the fading moments
I spent with you in my bed.
Fed up with things ending too early, I'll constantly
be fending for those soft touches and empty hushes.
Empty.
What a word to describe how I feel knowing you'll
be gone by Sunday, without waiting for me to heal.
Monday will come and my heart will shudder.
Flutters, that soft, delectable feeling that I felt in my stomach
will drop and stop, halting all pleasantries.
Finish
me off with one last kiss,
Make me miss
you until I fade from the confusion.
The pollution
that you have caused to build up in my chest
Best be worth the final touches you caress
onto my skin.
Sin-fully,
I'll compare your clear brown gaze to the
murky lust, dirtied by others.
I wonder if you ever had any room under your covers.
I wonder if I ever had any pull on you, ever.
Never,
Ever
will I ever want to weather that weather-y storm you've
measured with buckets of rain
painfully, locking onto my chest
glued to my teeth
Mistaken.
Misled.
My soul feels erasably unfed.
I bled.
I bled. I ******* bled when you held me in my bed
and the words of your utter denial
Cried out between us, causing a separation
I wanted nothing to be with.
God, just three weeks. That's it.
Three weeks, peaking my emotions to their
utter, serene, intoxicating HIGH.
My, what kind of magic have you poured
into my veins.
I didn't think you could ever be the cause of this much
Pain.
Wait.
I didn't want to be another one.
For me, I've always been the detached one.
The one with a dismissal attitude, a missile
of self-confidence and independence.
Impermanence was all you were ever offering.
While I always was offering you my everything.
Foolishly, albeit. Albiet, foolishly.
I'll be it. I will be it. I swear it. I'll be yours.
But **** it, you don't need it.
So?
Now what?
...
I'll go back inside and recreate
that tall, thick wall of utter
strength and unwavering singularity.
Single.
No more tingle in my bones, woe me.
Woe is me, all right.
Hope for me, that I can fight with all of my might.
If only I had the power to push you away
before it's too late, before I hate even a cell
of that specific date.
May. Thirteenth.
SUNDAY.
