My hand pressed against your chest;
and I'm in your emptiness,
crushed against your vertebrae,
bones so bright I want to play them,
fragile pieces ring as voices rise to sing,
but all your movements aren't listening.
And your body is the only thing
that will ever be close to me.
You hate me in my dreams,
watching as sunlight beams
against the creamy Gothic walls;
I think it's because you're naked,
baked and nodding at the girls who stroll
in rolling green beneath the window—
I stroke your spine,
you frown and spin
through a million black holes,
away from old houses made by
I wake up in my covers,
You're so good at running,
strapping yourself to escapade
just to get away
to places where she doesn't touch you
from that far away place,
from that lacy cold car she slammed into;
no more children's toys to swim in
or cancerous lips to kiss.
I drink in your justification,
juxtaposition between my teeth
so when I bite down
it makes me almost as numb as your drugs do,
strewn across a disfigured room
grown into your brain.
at least until I know you're no longer
my stomach lurching
with all these disturbing dreams,
drenched in satanic tongues and demon lungs
until I wake up to an open closet,
cell phone breathing softly with hesitant sighs;
I need to cry,
crawl beneath the apple tree outside,
defying the fruitless parts of me.
You would be perfect for her
with all your obscurity
trying to hide beneath sincerity,
But you're empty
and I can't puke out any more empathy
until your drugs are dried up
and you're filled with something.
Until you can actually be.