Under the Rug

What shall I make of this bitter approach
when me and my words make no sense anymore?
I've thought it today,
yesterday,
the day before.
Then you ask why things turned out this way
when we were supposed to know more
than we did before,
and I stuck my fingers in my ears hoping it would all go away.
I was frightened by it,
scared shitless.
Surrounded by
crowded by
smothered by it.
Smothered by you
and what we had going,
the happiness,
arguments,
bottomless stowing
away of true feelings
all under the rug.
They found their way out and wrapped around the plug,
electrified us and the hope in our hands
burned our eyes to the floor
and our hearts to ash.
We gave it our all.
We gave us a chance.
We gave it another,
We still didn't last.
Yes, you are nothing.
But you are my nothing.
You are nothing and I am everything.
Every glance
Every fear
Every smile
Every sting
you feel when you're laying awake in your bed
in loneliness,
consequence,
in tears and dread
late into the night
or perhaps in the morning,
limbs immobile
and eyelids shuttering.
I am your nothing
laying there,
a hollogram in your bed of what used to be there.
You look over at that empty air
next to you, cold, and blankly you stare.
I am nowhere.
I look over my shoulder and you are there,
wherever I am,
The there where I am where you are, too.
And you are everywhere,
in my stares
in my shower
in my pants
in my eyelids.
Still you'll never find me
But I know where to find you:
at the tip of this pen I hold my paper to;
In the actions I speak and the words that I do.
It is the truth,
We can't deny what is there,
You are everywhere
and I am nowhere.