But these are just words that diffuse in the air, their soft tone can fit through the walls & their lack of stability can break down a tower made from hope.
I gave them to you and you swallowed them like candy- a temporary satisfaction that tasted like freedom & long nights away.
These were just words that gave birth to a physical form with no soul.
These were just words I convinced myself I said when you recall nothing of the sort and tell me I lied.
Now I remember you're gone,
when you told me my hands belong in my pocket rather than around you.
When a day passed, then the next. When i saw my reflection in your silence. This was me and I know, that I should have stayed after you kissed me goodbye.

He asked me why I wasn't dead,
what selfish reason am I alive for anyway?
Thinking my rotting flesh can handle anymore wasted nights or blackened lungs.
Being told of a brighter future, yet my vision is blurred with a fish eyed lense and the way forward only sinks me deeper into its hell.
This hell, it burns me.
I feel it twisting my veins,
tightening my chest and wishing for death.
It brings pulpitations to my already cracked heart, as it creeps through the cracks which fill me with a roaring flame that doesn't bring the heat that might warm up a happy family on Christmas night. It is the burnt out ashes when they've all gone to bed and the gift wrappers left shredded at my feet..

I'm screaming your name but you'll never hear me,
when the tears fell onto the pillow that is now water resistant.
I wake up embarrassed because the stain on my sheets was me thinking about you.
It was me collapsing for a minute, or two.
My eyes will never see you again,
my memory only knows your name.

It's said that 3am is really the time for the poets who've lost their lovers,
or for the artist looking for reason within the shapes he creates to bring back the memory.
These memories awaken in the darkness & pick up the broken pieces of the soul from the floor,
sharpening the edges so to cut deep in the flesh, making sure its presence is forever known.
These memories pretend to make coffee again, and sit as we stare into her eyes between the smokey haze rising from the mug.
They made us smile as we watched our happiness slip away,
and left in black.

This keeps the poets awake because the ink won't spill the secrets.
This keeps the artist awake because the brush hurts when he is forced to re-create the outline of her gentle face, the way her hair fell off her shoulders, why his canvas remains blank.

I've been choking on the heart I tried to eat.
Its hard to breathe, at least it tastes sweet.
I found my throb buried in your chest.  
I ripped it out and started to build a nest.
A messy wound, i keep it clean.
I'll hold you up, or you can lean.
You stumble cower, you've been spent.
My loves desire sparks like flint.
You've cut me off and tied me tight.
I wont let you bleed out in the night.
Your heart I swallowed.
Ripped it out whole.
It sits in my chest perfectly fits in the bowl.
You ate mine, and now we are even.
Don't count on me ever leaving,

Stagnant for almost ages,
a shift in the universe creating cracks at the core.
It's just change they say,
progress feeding life until it's bloated and now it's heavy.
Why ruin a good thing?
A journey they say,
forgetting to mention the skepticism & uncertainty in between, the back and forth. Left right, left right.
It's not comfortable,
there was a home.
A beacon of safety when entering the door,
laying in a bed surrounded by the diffused atmosphere of who you once were and now.
Why ruin a good thing?
Now it's time to find an opening inside uncomfort, where you might fit best so that you're warm every night.

It's a messy Monday morning,
with the blinds still closed to avoid the light.
It's the stumbling out of bed that makes you wonder why you're not dead.
It's the contemplation of existence,
not caring what's next.
Not caring your pay cheque could make a difference,
Not caring you're wearing a brandless tee and certainly not caring about the ******* on TV.

It's rooted from where you came from & why she made it but not you,
How being breathless occupies the entire room.
pacing your palms over your head trying to figure out why you're not dead.
It's a messy Monday morning because you lied to yourself yesterday when you said: "only one drink."
Because you couldn't seem to figure out where things were headed & maybe this time, today would be the end.
It doesn't make sense so it's better to lay in bed.
It's not better but it's easy,
It's easy to believe the monsters in your head are only alive to just be friends or that your nightshift job means more money in the end.
To an end the priests have worked on,
To satisfy believers,
Fulfilling their needs.

It's a Godless world,
It makes no sense.