You're like terminal cancer and I know with absolute certainty that you'll be the death of me. And yet, my fragile heart is attracted to your broken pieces like a moth drawn to a flame. I am not a moth, but I know I will burn out just like one. I see you, and I can't breathe because you're unknowingly clutching my lungs in the palms of your hand. I lose my voice hearing yours and lose my mind trying to figure out the thoughts running through your head. I am losing sleep because I lay awake at 2 am, agonizing over the fact that the nodes on your back do not know the patterns of my fingertips. I leave pieces of me all around you because I have unintentionally given you all of me already. I leave my gut on your front porch so you step on it every time you leave and every time you arrive. I leave my chapped lips in your coffee cup, hoping for it to brush against yours every morning. I leave my trembling hands on your work table, wishing you'd hold them when you feel like the spaces between your fingers are too empty. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay awake. I am stuck halfway through doing and not doing because I have lost my will and my conscience as well. I am losing myself to you, and I cannot stop because this is a sickness they have not yet found a cure for. Oh honey, I can't believe you don't realize you're terminal cancer, and I'm already at stage four.
YOU ARE READING
Acedia
Poetry[ A c e d i a : ennui ; state of torpor or listlessness ; spiritual apathy ] Poetry attempts / Random thoughts / Musings (P.S. I'm not very good at this, don't expect too much. Thanks)
