Although, surely,
I feel like abscess of your absence
like stale cigarettes in my chest,
it also means nothing to me;
the certainty of your presence,
glowing next to mine (which flickers),
wanes the carcinogen of my missing you.
It is the same comfort
which assures me that
I will not become jealous -
enraged in a green to match my
mossy aura.
I remember so little of the
narcotic-fuelled hours,
but vividly I recall their happening.
I recall the peace and the
reciprocated adoration and admiration
that is so alien to me.
Hibernate, honey; die-bernate if you must.
I know that the yellow of my
wall will be your backdrop,
and my wavering moss will steady.

I am nothing
I am sliding
My words are neither
lyrical nor logical
and I am empty of the voices that once
told me right from wrong;
left from right and
laddered tights
ripped off in half-dawn
alleys by gents whose ***** are as
blue as
packets of cheese and onion crisps.
I fear the next feeding hour;
I fear the sticky awareness that
I am not aware;
I fear the footsteps; the breaths; the
children.
I am reliant on these bubbles of
expensive chemistry.
My brother begs me not to and
he does not know the half of it.
Half time, half way, half asleep, half dead.
My hair is falling out and my
cells falling off my
endoskeleton;
my outer shell is fractured and
I am curiously broken.
Heed my advice -
I have none.
Find your own oblivion.