I read your letter, or attempted would term it better, it was spoken in a tongue too sharp to make out.
But from what I gathered, to shape sense of the matter, this cryptic labyrinth of blows was written solely to bleed me out.
As if I never understood you before.

You repeated yourself so many times, alternating between maudlin weeps and anger deeper than the effort you ever made to demolish the facade of being the unyielding red light that ceased to turn green.
But the light has burned out, and now I don't know whether every flicker you signal to go is just another trap to shun me for moving about.

I'm wearing your sweater and i'm attempting your letter and I swear I can still smell the contempt. It's howling through your ball point pen, written from your fingers all pointing ten in my direction, because i'm forever the one to blame.
Yes, ill take it so I will have to no longer fear that my name to you was just a word you merely shouted but never adhered, never whispered, never heard.
Never again, because now our accents are worlds apart.
My prose is too native for your foreign heart.

The common desire to define ourselves is defeaning and my ears are ringing. I'm searching for the foundation of the sound, the definite core where I grow from the ground. I have the power to water my basis but instead I let the impression of myself through anothers biases dry up and dust away. I'm kicking rocks below my barefeet, hoping that when I spread and share my air the opinions of who surrounds me wont pollute it to the degree where I can no longer breathe. And now im rocking back and forth in this creeking wooden chair, the roots of relative minds rested below me reminding me what was once there and whether or not something tangible will result when the inevitabilities of life chop me down and leave me bare.
So I guess until tomorrow, or a week, a month, a year, I'll disintegrate into the soil before any of my peers and it won't hurt so bad to be left alone when I know their roots above still continue to fully grow.

The weight of these demands
drag my ankles.
Each mile-marked flag is a shank in my back
as I continue to marathon
my destination.
It is still a worn-down beaten path, but nonetheless
the scenery is something not to be missed.

I wish you would join me.
Pass me so I have someone to follow; 
(I cannot find a flag)
Follow me so I have somewhere to fall;
(I cannot remove the daggers myself)
Stand beside me so I do not feel alone;
(I cannot pace without a peace of mind).

What an elusive way to say!
Meanwhile, a simple man’s lips 
would simply utter “Stay.”

These days, sleep feels like a dream. The reality of you keeps me awake.

I'm combatted by the ultimatum between the love of life and life filled with love. The more I live, I learn you can't have both or enough.
"I constantly have to share the world with you." You murmur through drunk lips, tears in your eyes, cheek bones begging for a smile, "I love you because of this and I'll lose you for it." It wasn't long before you let me go. Why did you let me go?

I hope one day someone like you will fight for me like I fight for the world. I hope one day someone like you will step aside while I chase the sun, and know that when the light turns black my instinct is to turn around and look back. I hope someday someone won't leave before all has begun to lack.

The future is empty as space. I believe this only because I don't know any different. We chase for what is unknown so we can fill it. That void. All the while forgetting the past is what kept us full, what made us whole.

Life is bottomless and I'm just trying to find somewhere to land.
My desire was the sky, my ego knows, and my comfort is your soft grounded hand I fell into to take its blows.

These days, sleep feels like a dream. The reality of this keeps me awake.

There's a room on the sixth floor of my mind you alone occupy. I'm not much for guilty pleasures but something always allures me back, squandering any thoughts of resistance. I guess what I'm trying to say, is I only desire your attention when you ignore me.
So out of all the covetous ***** I spew from my lips, this still remains to be the worst one, but I cannot help myself:
I solely crave your touch when I have your hands tied behind your back.
Scared you will walk or fly, or worse yet, run away from me, I relentlessly refuse to sever the ropes and free you.

There's a room on the sixth floor of my mind you alone occupy;
A beautiful blind-folded man forcibly sitting underneath an uncomfortable, ominous spotlight at the center of the floor, shone only for interrogation.
I'm the devil's advocate with an angel's smile.
I put the "saint" in "insanity."
I realized, and now, cultivated this through your eyes like telescopes.
Concealed and blinded by my own stone hedge, I was unable to see anything beyond the little world I created for myself.
You were the matchless one strong and patient enough to diminish it.
Boy, I had you always on the fence, didn't I?
"Should I stay or should I go?"
And you stayed until you went.
And that's what I love about you.
You're gone.
And that's what I love about you.
And I love you forever.

There's a room on the sixth floor in my mind you alone occupy; sitting like a corpse and haunting me like a ghost.
And you haunt me forever.

Feeling uncomfortable in a comfortable space seems odd enough to dismiss. At least, that's how it is when I'm sleeping. So many people; A deep saturation that can continue for years, I swear. That's one memory my sub-mind let me keep, and it was a thrill. My judgement was so impaired that happiness came immediately, profoundly as much as anything else.
But that's the point, finally I felt.

All of the faces my sight craves to taste, the faces I receive no more than the tiniest of sips were unified into one tall glass of water. I might as well have had gills because I drank it so gratefully it seemed I had been deprived of hydration since the beginning of blue moons. So many people. At least, that's how it is when I'm sleeping.

Thus still, I open my crusted eyes everytime and I'm back on land again and the earth consumes me entirely. And as my feet brush against the hard ground I solemnly pray for heavy mud, anything diluted enough to worship throughout the day until my head fades white and returns to the clouds and then there, I swear
I can breathe again.
At least, that's how it is when I'm sleeping.

The magic released from your fingertips purr like spikey legs of a cricket, and although the pitch can be quite much, at least it fills the defeaning silence. And that's better than nothing.
It's everything compared to nothing

See, it's a different type of suffering.
As cardinal as the cardinals sing,
sound still sounds more radiant from your mouth; light as a cloud and tempting as the devil's cake, but it's much too **** loud for this headache.

Just as a hummingbird you urge each redundant peck deeper, and with it comes a blatant crooked creek. It's such a lovely repeat to wake up to, but the minute reality sets in I just want to shake you and retreat back to sleep so sound.
Retreat back to sound as sleep.

My cloudy head floats peeking at your ground,
and I can't make up my mind when your earth is bringing it down.