You've got no idea how much I want to rip off my lips when they are not glued to yours.
You've got no mother fucking clue how much I think of you when I'm drunk.
The exact same amount as I do when I'm sober, just now I can't help my mind from wondering to the foggy nights we had together.
You tasted salty and sweet like a candy I've never tried before, and your soul had that addictiveness, more than any drug humans have created.
And now I find myself sinking farther into a black hole of withdrawal.
Do you know how much I would force into my very veins to feel what I had with you? Do you know?
I'm sure of it.
Yet there's nothing I can do and nothing I can say that will bring you back.
As if you'd died and reached a place that not even my tip toes could leverage me.
I can't kiss anyone else.
I can't fuck anyone else.
Without the idea of you being home waiting for me.
I am drilling in to this mind that people claim as "beautiful."
My pain is beautiful.
But only to me.
Not to you.
Or to the people who rave so often about it.
But to me only.
I see things clearer because of if.
I see the dark and the light and how it has mixed together to form this neutral gray. And in some moments, when I lift this smog of a veil, I see things colorful, I see things vibrant.
I see you.
I see them.
I see it all.
And that is my life.
Seeing in inconvenient spurts that drive me to believe that there is hope.
That catapults me into seeing more than there really is.
And I live.
And I die.
And I wait for something absent.
Something that will tell me. "It's okay now, for real this time."
But the signs do not come.
And neither do you.
Or them.
Or /it/.
But I still will wait.
Until the wrinkles on my face double the amount of scar tissue on my flesh.
I will fucking wait.
November 13 2015 11:38pm
