Nyctophilia

White Telephone

And the ice crystals form in my stomach,

As I talk to you on the phone.

I've pushed my limits again, haven't I?

My stupidity behold.

The band which used to be thick, opaque and bold,

Lied prey to me and turned thin, translucent and cold.

I knew I stretched it too far, too wide,

Too weak, too hard, too predictable to spite.

I tugged and pulled, and pulled some more,

And it snapped out loud, hurting us both.

I knew this would happen, I knew it would,

But my fingers still turn pale, and I harden my hold.  

I can hear your voice in my ears,

Soft and clear,

As the world freezes some more,

At least I'l have my ice cold beer.  

And my stomach feels like throwing up,

And it churns and grinds,

But I stand there, pretending it's alright.

I listen to your voice on the phone,

My throat closing up,

I manage to hush the tremble in my voice,

And listen without making a noise.   

You say you need to talk some more,

But you'll call me later...

And I cut the phone,

And my world gets dizzier.