Here, I'll write you a letter,
all sweet and cliché,
folded in an envelope
and sealed with a kiss.

I'll tell you all about my self
and ask, with interest, of yours;
each thought and idea illustrated
with my doodles and notes.

I'll speak of fields with grasses green
and sparkling stars up high
that we could lay in and marvel at
if we were to fall in love.

I'll write down my daydreams
of a small apartment with you -
one pet, two kids,
you and I, aging together.

I'll put in a love poem,
with unique combinations
of twenty-six letters and more
to promise my eternity to you.

But at the end of the letter,
maybe you'll come to see
that I signed no name
nor written an address.

So there, that is the end
to our short love affair;
we'll leave it to one letter
to keep the perfection forever.

The daydream I created for us
in that one paper, front and back,
will remain our tiny little secret
and our perfect little world.

My collection of memories
mostly alone with you,
though so frequently opened,
never loses value.

But what I've noticed recently
of this album I hold dear
is that so much has been changing
now that you're not here.

Each time the cover's opened,
each time I feast my eyes,
something gets distorted
and one small detail dies.

I'm losing real reality,
and replacing it with my own -
it's frightening how much
my imagination's grown.

Our fights and anger
have been erased
to where only joy remains
to tell your grace.

My faults are highlighted,
more guilt inscribed
to my mistakes, and your
forgiveness of my lies.

You're ideal now, and perfect;
almost to where I can't
picture or reason as to how
you allowed me, with you, to stand.

Now you're just my celebrity,
someone to whom I can only be a fan;
I cannot ask you to stay by my side -
nor can I reach out to grab your hand.

So here's my fan letter to you
and my farewell;
though you will never read this,
nor of its receiver's name will I tell.

Your arm starts loosely
draped on my shoulders;
your hands travel
down my back.
Your fingers explore
the bottom seams of my shirt,
and I jump when their cold
discovers my skin.
Your long, thin explorers
leave icy trails up my back
as they pull me to you, closer.
One kiss slurs to another,
muffling my sobriety,
making me drunk -
and the night steals away
my conscience.

Memory fails me
once light seeps in,
and all that's left
is my self-pity.
I hate myself for falling again,
but despise myself more
for knowing -
every time you come around,
I will eagerly follow.

Science refers to love,
Ah - love,
As nothing more than chemicals.

So then I am just a chemical imbalance,
with my head against your doorway
as I call out to you through your door.

You are a thermal detonation
of a chemical explosive -
inviting me into your arms.

And we, you and I,
are nothing more than a chemical spill -
burning holes into your bedroom floor.

Inside me is a cold war,
too afraid to escalate;
hushed battles
thought but unspoken
leave halves of broken things -
your opposing half
unheard of, unmade.

Inside me is a novel,
unabridged and
maybe ten stories thick
of insults and hideous truths
leaking from my brain
going, to you, unnoticed -
my thoughts unheard, unsaid.

This pain that digs deep,
deep down inside –
it’s one squeeze of a lemon
and one pinch of salt
rubbed, no, massaged
in a raw, sore scar.

You are
a masochistic habit,
an addiction at that.
A shot of *****,
blades on wrists –
death request à la mode.

Look for me.
In the crowds that pass you through,
the dreams that scuttle by.
Look for the face only you can recall
The face that no longer exists.

The face in your memories
Will remain there, only.
It will never escape the tombs
That you let cave in.
The smile will be for you to see, only
Because it can no longer be formed.

It will only live in your memories –
The original has frozen, cold.
Outside of your memories,
It will never again be found.

Grief and loss have destroyed the smile;
Reality has hit.
The shelter you once formed to protect me
Receded and followed in your steps
as you ran away.

The smile that you used to protect
Was left behind and engulfed by the ashes
That blow in gusts in these dark alleys –
Hidden and concealed from view

But maybe if you really looked –
Scrutinized, I mean –
Maybe you’ll be able to see me.
Maybe you’ll see two small, round eyes
Blinking, staring, looking right at you.
Two small, round eyes
Hoping,
Wishing,
To escape the suffocating mask of darkness.

Look for me.