Love is a word
like a sword
that has worn
out its scabbard,
a lonely *******,
or a red rose
that opens alone,
a dream that lingers
for too many seasons
and passes in the shadows,
furrows in the dust
on a bannister,
a rock in the garden
of lust,
an empty place
at a table,
a ring on a cobweb
in the rain,
a long hair on your bed,
a nail in a blank wall.

The maniac is moving down Main.
An umbrella raised, but there's no rain.
The sun in distain, is laughing at his face.
He shades the pain, from the human race.

The maniac enters the store.
The shoppers stop, and drop to the floor.
They hear him sigh, and begin to cry.
What did he even go there for?

The maniac's at my window.
I hide inside, and pray he'll go.
He rattles on the pane, now there's a steady rain.
But I tell myself Hell No.

The maniac is in my head.
He entered while i dreamt in bed.
He'd found the hidden key, he entered quitely.
The maniac is in my head.

I turn my heart back to a time
when my silver nail polish
hadn't flaked off like
dandruff into the
rolling sea of my carpet.
My hand hangs over
the edge of my bed
as tears fall
down my cheeks.
I picture your face,
the gentle blue of your
gentle eyes and the gentle
curve of your nose, perfect
in my own mind.
I wonder how I ever
deserved to meet you.  
I think of your nervousness
and how I want to hold it,
arms thrown around its neck,
face buried selfishly in
it's shoulder.
How I want to press the anxiety
that fills your chest
into origami
cranes.
I cry and cry and think
maybe,
just maybe,
if I have cried
enough for the both of us,
that you will finally
smile for no reason at all.