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.

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.

There are so many nights that are so vehemency important.

And so many nights that are not.

Yet the most important are the nights that never happened.

The nights silenced by fear or tiredness or silliness.

The nights that are pounding on doors of regret.

The nights that haunt in their wake.

Because they could have meant something. 


And because things rarely do these days.

-

*"It would have destroyed me if you said hello, it would have ******* killed me."

For I believe you to be a thief, my dear.
As I believe for all that come into my mind.
And perhaps, the thought of you still lingers,
As if to wistfully remind my bones,
That I must chase you,
To regain the part that you have so gracefully stolen.
Perhaps that is why you are so inescapable.
Because you have escaped,
And I lie, so desperately trying to avoid that realisation.
You have had such a grand heist on my heart,
And it is only in your wake that I have realised its absence.
How foolish of my indeed,
To leave it so unguarded.
Perhaps that is why my knees quiver when I hear of you,
Because I want to run,
To follow you.
Yet you are already so very far away.
And I fear, in the mist of the failures of distraction,
That I shall never make the distance.

You must run from her,
For she has fragmented her heart,
And therefore,
Has no tolerance for yours.
-  

*Her face seemed as though it had been kind once.

She was trying, so desperately,
To outrun the quiet loneliness of the world.
She held vendettas against the sinister silences that haunt goodbyes,
Against the fading shades of love,
Against the quietness in a voice that speaks to a desertion of love; a death.
(The monsters of her heart).
However, there is a certain bravery in her desperation for life.
To escape the oceans of regret,

To escape a certain brokenness.
For bravery lies in her conviction to live,
To find an irrevocable truth in another,
To deceive the shadows of longing.
In the face of undeniable malice and grandure.
In the fear of feeling nothing at all.
For in the end,

When the silence is deafening,
With a weariness that electrocutes,
And a tiredness of the heart.
She wanted it all to have mattered.
-

*"Do you think I'm pretty?"
I think you're pretty."

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).

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.

To find something that was not there before,
To stare at a telephone that will not ring,
With a tiredness of the eyes and a taint of the heart.
To notice that sometimes words are not enough.

To follow the dances of strange fingerprints,
To terrorize the etchings on the skin,
To burn last nights cigarettes into the lips.
To distract the longing of the heart.

To know a moment in many different ways,
To understand that it could not exist,
To wonder if it was ever there at all.
To find a sincerity in delusion.

To understand the power moonbeams,
How they mar the bones, in their fictions,
To know the subtle parallels of love and hate,

How they act as partners in crime.

To the devastating follies that transpired in the night.
So hauntingly lovely.
That one may not mind carrying them,
Like sad love letters, clinging to the loneliness of secret places.


It's the type of sadness you don’t really mind noticing.
-


*"I wish I could kiss you all night."
"Maybe you just might."

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.

I can see it within his steps,
And how they are no longer in rhythm with mine.

I can see it in the absence of his smiles,
That he is further away, that I can not see him anymore.

I can hear it in the sharpness of his tone,
The way it strikes into my bones.

I can feel it in his absence in the night,
For although he is near, I am still cold and wanting.

That there may yet be something lingering, between the silence and the sheets, but it is foreign, it is no longer love.
------

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.

For she is the embodiment of pure nostalgia,
Her twists and turns are so inescapable.
For the memory of her clings to me,
And, as if a partner in crime,
Her goodbye accompanies.
I will find her, in the creases of sheets,
And the rooms that are hollow of her.
Somedays, all I can see is her,
Is her eyes.
Eyes that once held my world,

That hypnotized me with their electricity.
Yet today there is no serendipity found in the irises I once adored.
No, they only allude to the chilling numbness that has infested her blue bones.
Know that I write this as a obituary to the girl I once loved.
I write this in vengeance of the betrayals of fate.
I write this so you will understand that she was not always,

So terribly heartless.
She lies, as incorruptible evidence, that tears can live inside a gods eyes.
-

For I would have swum the ocean for her,
If only I could.

This is a story of a quiet tragedy,
The kind of tragedy that you don’t really notice all that much,
Until you do.
Until you notice.
And the folly of it is knowing that you can’t take that realization back.
This is a story of a boy and a girl.
For the boy loved the girl for a very long time.
And after a very long time she began to love him back.
She gave up everything for him, every freckle.
She compromised herself.
Unraveled herself,
Unchained herself from her loneliness.
She gave him her heart,
A terribly fragmented and tortured *****, not worth a dime,
But a heart all the same.
She hid her broken fears and began to smile when she saw him.

She let herself think of him at night.
She began to remember the breath of his fingerprints.
Yet she had given up so much in the search of love,

(She gave up everything).
She became a martyr to love.
And yet, when she turned to witness all that she had done,

Standing on the parallels of perpetual happiness and sorrow,

She noticed with a sigh,

That there was nothing left.

But a lonely grave,

And a certain emptiness,
An emptiness she was all too comfortable with.
An emptiness that stood on the rumble of emotion.
A emptiness that told of a tiredness,
A quiet.
-

She felt everything yet nothing at all.
She will remember that nothingness for the rest of her life.

"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.

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.)

You are so terribly corrupted by the tragedy that lingers in your blood.
So terribly crumbled by the silhouettes in the night, how the shadows that dance reminds you so much of his.
You find yourself shrivelled by the world, haunted by your thoughts.
Yet my love, through your sorrows and woes,
I beg of you, do not forget.

Remember how he looked at you that day,
How you knew that you would hide that look on the tips of your eyelids for years.

Remember when he held your hand, when you saw the beauty in the world and with knees trembling, you knew.

Remember the thunderbolts that rioted in your soul when he traced your skin for the first time, when you were so electric and so terrified you could barely stand it.

Remember his mumbled midnight dreams and how he was so grateful that you were the last thing he saw, remember that those twists and turns that were, at one point, the most important thing in the universe.

Remember him, finding you, when you had encaged yourself in a silent room, full of so many things, that were beginning to drown you.
Remember how he was there.

Remember in your drunken haze, when you held his hand and led him through the streets. Remember when he held you, when he made you feel alright.

Remember when he followed you to the door, and how you felt when he held your wrists to stop you from leaving. Remember that.

Remember when you thought that it was simply so astounding, to have found him at all.

Remember that things are sometimes good and sometimes bad and most importantly, that anything worth having known in this world requires without doubt, an equal and brilliant mix of both.  

Remember that you were happy once and please don't be ashamed of that.

And above all, remember who you used to be.
-



*"Beg yourself, my love, beg yourself,
To not forget who was knocking on your door.
In the rain, on Saint Patricks day."

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.

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 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.

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

And for a moment I caught myself,
In the perils of hope,
Waiting for something unobtainable.
Something that never quite existed.

Wondering through it all,
Through the doubt and regret,
If you had caught yourself in that moment too.

---
*"Will you call me in the morning?"

Step by step
As I descended
Despite the ache in my bones
And the weakness of my heart
I thought of all the things I could have said
And all you could have done.

You were everything to me,
Everything I wanted to come home to
Everything I never wanted to leave.
And it is a strange feeling
Watching something never quite real fade away
Step by step.

**

"It's getting late."

"Don't go just yet."

It was chaos, fire and red.

Until it was ice, cold and blue.

And oh, what I would do, if I only knew,

That this was all a game to you.

***

The truth of it is:

I would have fallen all the same.

I did not know that that would be the last time I saw you.

I wish I had known.

I wonder what I would have done differently.

**

"I'll call you tomorrow."