ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ ｏｎ ｔｈｅｗａｌｌ

I flirt with the idea of you. You come to me so often with an idea of romance. That you'll give me all I want. That you're all I could ever have need for. In my selfish thoughts I imagine I can hold you. Blissfully. Eternally. Dressed in your darkness. You, veiled within that obscure distance you offer. A pull to the edge. Flying or floating deeper to the under side of the world. You control the pull. I contort my body to hold myself in place against you. As much as I want you, as much as anyone could want anything—

I've talked to god about you. It's shown me nothing; but that I think of god when I think of you.

It often feels as though I was born without hands to pray with.

Stupid fucking shit heart .

You made me dig my own grave with the knife you expected me to end my life with, and in that end, the blade had dulled, and I had lived a life of shallow scars, and no way to rest in this empty hull.

"You made this heart feel like it was already known" are words I so wish to say.

I'll come back to myself someday. More myself. More willing to stay. In these days—I walk back on the path that made me feel far away.

Every day I find you a little less like yourself in my thoughts.

It felt to me that you were a canary in a mine shaft that would never choose to sing when you felt everything could crumble.

I want to lick from her palm and have her sweat drip onto my chest.

I can't believe he died under a bridge. Anytime I think about it my mind thinks out, "wow I can't believe he went out like that." It's like those rumors you hear when you're young. "I heard this bridge is haunted by a guy who died here." Then in my own thoughts, I wish I knew exactly how many real people know people who became myth. He was a nice enough guy in the living. Tragic he passed so soon. We get a little older, and it seems like some live forever for how they died.

It worries me that there's things I won't ever heal from. Like something was removed from me that couldn't ever go back into place the same way. Without scarring, without notice, without recognition. Never feeling whole. Just whole enough to move forward in remembrance of what isn't there.

I would've given up everyone and everything to be with you. In the story of my life you were the final chapter. Which was foolish to think, I know. I worked towards you. Every second with you felt like it mattered to me. Your presence. The time it took to get to you. It always felt like it mattered. I know you felt it too...don't know when you stopped feeling it. Don't know what caused that turn. I see your life now and I can't help but feel that you're not really living for what you want. I hope so...so me wondering about the past isn't a solitary practice. You had eyes full of sorrow. I cried when I looked into them. I saw myself in you. Like a jigsaw piece fitting well with another. I found the place I needed to be. Your face, your gaze, the smile, the tears, the hesitance, the worry, the pressure, the trying, the knowing what we could be, the hoping that all could fall into place the right way. I think of you now and I see that all in my thought of you. You matter so much to me, but as a matter that will never materialize.

In many ways you became my moon. From somewhere far away we'd found a place in time to collide. That heat we endured as we took from each other. The pulling away and giving into. Till we found our forms apart. So much of myself being left with you. So much of you I still carry in me. Like that attraction that brought us together, we pull to stay in each others orbit. With safe distance. I look to you as you may look onto me. Knowing that intensity is one that can only be lived through once. The mutual destruction we were for one place in time. Holding space in remembrance of the cataclysm we'd once indured.