and somewhere along the veins
of my hands, you found out my soul was starving,
and i cannot feed off of your lips anymore. i seemed
to crave your words, how you wrote
my silence, created me in an ambient light,
and composed my tears as
your very own music. the thing is, you didn’t
know that my tears were gypsum, crumbling;
some sort of hemlock, some
sort of mad concoction to keep you from seeing
the real of me. in reality,
i am sitting
simply at the foot of this bed,
wishing you would look at me.
i keep sitting, huddled under sheets
of paper; poetry once lived out among
the neatly stitched lines..
and you are hiding your face
in a blanket of midnights, and
we both know what midnight un.does... .
buttons and thoughts and blinking
gets too heavy, just to keep opening
my eyes trying to uncover you.
sitting, here, undressing you with need.
and ....

i am sitting simply at the foot of this bed, hoping
for one touch of velvet eyes to help
me see, help me believe these damnable tears
will wash away everything but the tracks
of where you have been; within and without.
and without, i have cracked skin,
rubbing and rubbing over the remembrance
of a final feeling, the last place you breathed
onto me the truth of you.

and if you are pulling the blanket of the whole world
out and away from me, i can only keep from
unraveling by sitting

simply at the foot of this bed.. .. .. .

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