and I sit here surrounded by the remains of the day and half drunk cups of black coffee
and I reflect:
I have achieved nothing.
Another day lost to the blur of post-alcoholic apathy
and I wonder if this is how it was for you
A perpetual sickness (I associate only with sadness;
but in your case self inflicted),
an inescapable numbness.
I’d like (except no) to take credit for your self-medicating,
but it is much greater than I
ever was to you.
An outside observer, I speculate self-important motives,
(much like in the past when I’d daydream of a life which included me in yours),
but am forced to confess: I never knew you.
Still, I dreamt of you last night
I often do.
Sometimes you’re crying,
Which, I suppose, implies I am waiting,
for something -
Your memory hits me black and blue
(your hair/your eyes)
your hand touching mine beneath covers;
never completely lovers,
just a head buried in a neck
for the longest of seconds -
I swear there was eternity on those lips.
In the last few weeks he would keep my back to his,
but you never left the lights on.
I wonder if I was ever there with you in those bedrooms.
Or were you picturing another girl
So then, why did you always come back?
I guess we both wanted to possess the other;
our unhealthy obsession.
Speaking without thinking of the risks,
our conversations building blisters,
all I ever wanted was to matter
to reach out and receive a response.
So many months you were
And then one night whilst drinking you tell me you got yourself a pen pal.
with all your mystery and mythology and secrets.
And you’re spilling words on strangers?
I assume you must be fucking.
I can hear the apologies catching in your throat.
I set fire to the paper boats
you so carefully folded,
hoping to summon you with signals made from the smoke.
But I’m left with lukewarm embers.
You promised to show me how to make them
before you left this place
and everything behind.
But you never even said goodbye.
You always come back,
but not this time.