I feel like this is a waste
because no matter how lovely the words come
they won't
replace what he denies

if it sells like Rowling
or evokes like Ginsberg,
if the legend of Homer
or creativity of Emily
all merges
it's still unsatisfying

He will never
give back what he's taken
he comes and replaces
the passion with dullness

His eyes are fading
into oblivion
(Manson's coma black)

I don't remember his hands
pushing me away
I can hear him typing
single words
and then silence

It's never enough

It's not the words he wants
it's an ideal
undefined and I can't find
the answer that'll please him

I don't need Renaissance
not Wuthering Heights
Dickinson is nothing without love
and Hemmingway-
-he won't touch

acceptance is craved but he finds me empty
unwilling to fall

I can only benefit from silicone and MTV
the exact replica of de Milo
and two years ago

Time is the answer
it needs to be reversed
to when he respected me
a state in which he was mine

I can't reach him anymore
the walls
rise higher than my words can float

It does not matter the exact definition of what he wants
in his solitary bed because it isn't me
that will fill the empty