I have uncovered that there is no word that holds more sorrow than potential.
Fate lies as only an unwitting alibi,
Malice only a valcher in its wake.
Potential is the reaching, unavoidable canyon in the soul,
So very tainted and saddened for things that never existed.
It is a pitiful nostalgia for words never spilt to the floor.
For the kisses that never stained the lips.
For the fingers that never brushed the skin,
With the electricity that was never felt.
For the places that were empty of you.
Potential, I have found,
Is a human construction.
Sinisterly designed to haunt you with who you are,
Remind you of who you are not,
And the vast, treacherous difference between the two.
-

(I mourn you in all the things we had not been,
I mourn you in all the places we had not seen.)

My thoughts turn to him,
As an audience to a fire.
Holding hope that things will be okay,
Yet knowing, through the perils of hope,
That no one will survive.
Oh! But there is such beauty in the destruction.
To burn away the skin,
And see the heart.
-

(I am addicted to your dangerousness).

I wrote this for you a long time ago on a coffee stained napkin, after you left me, full of love, lingering in a cafe.

"For you, in all your follies and faults and the way they make you so perfect for me.
For you, in the moments that linger in the vehemently insignificant corners and corridors of things, as if drifted of their own grandure.
For you, for the words that spill to the floor and the brilliant way you understand the deafening silence that follows.
For you, for your supernovas and clever shades, for your daylight smiles and nighttime skins.
For you, for your familiarity and the impossible truths that stand as martyrs to say that I have loved you before.
For you, despite the treachery and quiet sinister fun of the world.
For you, for making me so terribly scared of dying."
Yet here I am, in your wake, so full of so many thoughts and demons. Know that I have died, that I have loved and lost with equal measure.

The wistful dance of sighs we play,
Is unlike any other.
You sigh once,
I sigh twice,
I fear I will not recover.

I lie, drowning in moonbeams.
And you,
Whisper, swear that you'll follow me into them.
Yet your green eyes held no surprise,
That there was no love to be found between the sheets.
I lie, as flowers, withering on an empty bed.
Please understand,
(It is not that I am a monster.)
It is not that we are hideous.
It is simply that we can not bear loneliness.

For I am a ghost.
Which begs the question,
If it is I who dies,
Why am I so haunted by him.

-
God she was so happy once.
But now she's gone, and sometimes,
I am too.