Here I am

still crying

still clinging (to

beautiful specs of nothing)

still crawling my way back to

what I wish was insanity or

something like it

because it would seem wonderful

just to (spread these

paper clipped wings and)

f l y a w a y

to a land where

you, my dear

in the glorious pseudo- perfection

of a paperback book

are none existent.

And all these nostalgic memories

that I love to hate or...

hate to love?

are just dusky nothings

and folded away darkness

to simply forget about,

and you,

like a pointless chapter of

a beautiful story

are finally forgotten.