pushed the last month or so off my cheek, I've never seen October leave a mark
maybe it's mascara this time, smudged on my face, the leftover stain of tears...
and I slip my thumb over the area...
where he used to lay, when I wake at two a.m.
and discover the texture of despair.
He's drinking me in, the memory of us, the rooms speed,
ninety miles an hour through my memory
and our years blur, but I can still capture his smile....
if I wave my hand fast enough before
two a.m. opens her eyes
and lets me discover the tick tocking horror of reality.
If I close my eyes slowly enough he may be here, next to me
maybe I'll feel his skin and put a halt on my decisions, I'm
(not doing well, you know)
twisted behind the memories, and two a.m. is unforgiving as I wait
for his breath.
My calves are disappearing, I'm dissolving into nothing
this sick diet of depression
and how do I tell him I can't fly? How do I tell him...
it won't matter if I fall, I don't have
they broke at
when I studied the shattered feeling of