Poetic Relapse.

Untitled

I do not know how to cope with the thought of you loving someone else while my hands are cold, you have stolen my warmth and left me to fend for myself as these harsh winter winds freeze me on this high shelf but I'm drowning in love when you don't reciprocate and I am drowning in hate for myself for falling so quickly and drowning so swiftly and this poem is untitled.

My heart has no hand to hold it because you want nothing to do with it, why is it so quiet outside my head at 11:00 pm when I should be sleeping instead of thinking and dreaming instead of thinking about you and I'm so mad at myself for letting myself go, why am I not home to you when my hands are shaking and, why are all of my poems untitled whenever I have to write them for you this pain is real but it's not worth your time and I can't heal with quick rhymes that don't match the screaming in my head, can't I just sleep instead of keeping these poems untitled?

I can't help but have my finger hover over the backspace every time I write a line about your lips and your face and this time it's just flowing because each line can't help but grow without a cause and I can't resist this flit of fingertips and my hands are shaking because I'm writing about the soft curve of your lips and how each time feels like the first and it hurts but I'm not crying because I've passed that stage.

 I've moved on to relying on myself to push myself to the limits of secret bruises and loving hits that only we find pleasurable because they've turned to emotional hits that make my stomach drop because your eyes are so blue when they're brimmed with tears that I wish I could fear but I pray you trust me enough to let them overflow among dark lashes and high cheekbones, and my hands have stopped shaking in your presence, though they'll begin again, I pray I get over you.

But with soft hits and sour wine, I don't wish to turn back the clocks to an easier time with new thoughts.