The truth of the matter is that I am trying madly,
So desperately, to outrun myself.
To outrun the terribleness of my disposition.
To learn to numb the heart,
And try not to believe in things anymore.
And by that folly,
I have broken so many things.
And now there is nothing left,
But to watch everything crumble,
And try to forget,
With childish recklessness,
That I had let it happen.
For the fault is mine,
Or maybe it is that we are wicked people,
Tormented by such terrible midnight longings,
And the creases of sheets,
And the absence of you in all I see.
-

*I am so sorry.

She was destructively beautiful,
Aimlessly honest,
Wistfully vacant, with purpose.
She held such maddening sadness in her eyes.
And I knew, in the mist of the most dangerous of moments.
For when her blue dress flirted with my fingertips,
I knew that she would destroy me,
And I would spend the rest of my days trying to forget her.
Yet how perplexingly remarkable it is indeed,
To feel anything at all.

She is the ghost in his thoughts,
A nightmare so blissful it is mistaken,
For a sentiment of happiness.

She is the ghost in his thoughts,
For in her wake, the consequence lie,
In an unmade bed of thieves,
Slaughterer to his fragmented happiness.

She is the ghost in his thoughts,
Standing on the brink of such spiralling sorrow.
He sees her in the street,
He looks for her in all the people he meets.
-

For he is made of demons and of angels, they dance in his veins. Menacingly pattering to the sound of her tired voice.

Her folly lies in her capacity to love dangerously,
For she loves in many faces, in many words and in many tongues.
She lives inside her love, mutating her heart ever so.
Relishing, perilously, in the daze of its endangerment.
And for the fragments of her heart she is so terribly loved in return.
But only for a moment.
For she holds too much insanity in her sorrowful bones.
It infests her blue veins and plays with her hair.
It kisses her in the darkness of hidden longing,
And traces her skin with wistful desire.
Her insanity holds her to the wall and caresses her neck.
Her insanity gives her a cigarette and watches her blue smoke dance with a smile in the early morning.
Her insanity laughs with her in a melancholy haze of youthful poverty.
Her insanity holds her in his arms.
Her insanity is inescapably wistful.
It finds her in the night,
In the secret carousels of woeful nostalgia.
Her insanity has destroyed her so, and has so wickedly masked it as bliss.
She is irrevocably doomed, for she will spend her days submerged in an ocean of faces;
Hoping, so beautifully desperately,
That she will find a piece of him inside them.
-

*"Can I stay here a little longer?
I'm so happy here."

It does not matter that it is me.
Although I look for you in everyone I see.

I love -
The way your tired eyes whispered,
As if to apologise for the cowardice of the tongue.
I love -
The twists and turns of your sleeps,
And the way your skin finds mine in the darkness.
(The proximity of your heart).
I love -
The dangerousness and menace of your touch,
And how I wear it on my lips for days.
I love -
The sorrow that dances in your wake,
Your partner in crime.
Your presence in my sadness.
(The way you linger in my skin).
-

(I am forever haunted by all the space I must live in without you).

"I have began to spiral into such uncharted sorrow;
I have began to fall in love with you,
More and more,
Over and over again,
Every night.
And by the light of daylight,
I have come to love you anew.
I have began to fall into your quiet glances,
I have began to fall into your tiredness.
Your late night whispers and your haunting hands.
Yes, I have began to fall in love with you,
In the absence of daylight,
At the dose of your secret eyes."
Yet now your happiness has become a demon,
And I solemnly fear I will never sleep again.