You don't grow up
You learn to
Lower your cap
Hide your face
Your expression
And
Walk away,
Wordlessly

The cold permeates my bones
Seeping in and branding me
With loneliness and pain.
Teasing me and aggravating me
With your harsh breeze.
I wish he was here
To hold me and block you out
He makes the loneliness fade
If only for a while.
He makes me alive
With bits and pieces of us
Perfectly fit together.
He whom i will always love.

Its raining anger and betrayal
Hard pelting rain drops
That drown the sound of laughter
I am lost and forlorn.
Seeking shelter under the covers.
This bed feels cold without him.
I remember earlier times
When we crawled under the duvet
And cuddled to keep warm.
I miss his arms around me
Bodies fitted as close as possible.

I don't want to leave this room
Unless he is waiting downstairs
With a warm shrug and hug.
This weather was made for this
Him to hold me close.
So that am not alone.
He always excites me
With his arm draped over my shoulder
I long to rest my feet on his laps
And let him play with my toes.
He makes it impossible to be cold
As i shiver in delight.

There were some books in the hall,
I was told that they were yours,
And the thought crossed my mind
That, were you ever to haunt a thing instead of place,
It would be books-
Your books.
The smell of the old paper
Filled my nose.
It was like walking into a library.
A book of English drama
Lay in the stack-
Heavy and black.
Your name scrawled on the spine,
White against the dark.
It reminded me of you,
So I took it,
Raggedy spine and all.
And now it sits on my shelf,
To reassure me, much the way you did.
Of what I’m not sure,
Perhaps just for a sense of solidarity.
Books will always be there,
Living and breathing,
Even when their owners have gone.

Life doesn't stop,
even if you don't know
how to keep going.

Everyday I still have to
wake up without you.

I spend Mondays pulling pieces
of glass from the bottom of my feet.

Every shard reminding me of you.
Every line of blood bringing out your face.
And I smile with a bitterness,
as I throw the pieces away.

On Tuesdays I try to make
everything symbolic.  

I sit at my window in utter bareness,
and whisper to the cold panes that if everyone
stopped lying, we'd all be left naked.

Wednesdays are the days I drink
only water, and eat only celery.

Hoping to purge my body of poison.
Hoping to drop another pant size.
Wanting to get high off double zero skinny jeans.

Thursdays I always attempt to draw,
but never get past the art of words.

It's so much easier to stay in
my comfort zone.  Hang out with
punctuation, margins, and lines.

Fridays have a way of
being rather nostalgic.

It's never a happy trip down memory lane.
Too many wrong turns to be made.
Too many *** holes to get lost in.

Saturdays I binge on pizza,
realizing how much I love to eat.

The strangest feeling I'll ever know,
is that of feeling full.  I'm so used
to feeling completely hollow.

Sundays are horribly predictable,
that I can always count on.

To diffuse my energy I break wine bottles.
You'd never believe how it feels to walk
over something you've completely destroyed.