Besotting

there once was a girl. and she'll never love (the same way) again you're just like her, and she's just like you.

does it amuse you that when I (thought I) was dying, I never thought of you? perhaps I did remember not to forget, but I forget anyhow.

As the earth tilts upon its axis, I watch the tables turn still hoping that one single star might be plucked from the dusky twilight, and fall at my feet.

I've found that once you pick apart a person's ego, even the most mysterious and intriguing of individuals are significantly less interesting. We're all just accumulations of misconceptions and predetermined characteristics, (and, in some cases, cosmetics and faux leather). Perhaps I should settle for face value, undermining personas is a bad habit of mine.

I do not wish to be a bird. Birds fly, not because they want to, but because they must. How sweet it would be (you’d think), to live amongst the clouds, greeting tree-beings and sunbeams as night lifts its dusty veil. How glorious! How free! But this is not the case, for I am sure the sparrow longs to wander rocky mountain trails, kicking up dirt and history in their stride, as the inquisitive human might. Land-dwellers and sky-dwellers alike share an inevitable appetite for what nature has not intended. And so I find myself in a stark airplane, floating above an ocean-foam of nimbus and cumulus. From above, the atmosphere somehow se

Little Love, I'm depriving myself of sleep, yet again. I don't know why I do this to myself. Perhaps I am  hoping you'll somehow find me here, alone, in the frigid darkness of my four walls. Or perhaps I'm just scared of what might haunt me in my dreams (an irrational fear, I must say, considering what haunts me so in my wake). Whatever the case, I'm unhappy, awake or in dreamland. Maybe unhappy was a poor word choice. Apathetic might be more accurate. And the apathy scares me, more than anything else. Numb is not good, numb is not anything. And I'd like to be something. Something would be nice. Despite my indifference towards sleeping, my

The people on the television screen flicker artificial, ultraviolet. they're more real than I am. I hold my little love between closed palms, peering through a slit between my thumbs. It's cold to the touch, (I swear I saw it shiver) but it's there, and it's mine. Someday, little love, you'll see a soul not quite so empty. not quite so full of dread and nothing. more sunrise, less streetlights.

There are boys on every corner who feel the way I do, but I'm never what they're looking for. And I suppose it's only fair, that the broken wish for someone who's whole enough to fit right.

I can hide, but I can't run.