Runaway.

If my words mean nothing
then why do you shed light
on them during the hours
following the break of the
moon – filling your thoughts
with serenades and sonnets
of the love that I have for you,
which you aren’t allowing to
grow; bending the edges of
the words into hardened and
misshapen truths as though
honesty is the reality you’re
running from, and I am the
keeper of twice painted lies.

2, And then we weren’t forever…

On the bare walls
of our old apartment,
memories are playing
like reels on repeat,
showcasing dances of
first every things
overlapping with what
would become our lasts;
cries are no longer
the sound of the room,
instead replaced with
our song, that I can’t
bring myself to listen
to, playing on mute –
pleading with me to
simply ask of you,
if you even struggle
half as much as I do?

Hope.

What can crush an illusion,
such as hope, but two words
with a lone realization?

It’s a false pretense
baiting the walls with
memories shadowed in deceit;
gone are the visions of a
tomorrow filled with laughter
replaced instead with baited
breath – rapid succession beats
tearing apart the soul from the
core inside, trapping the victor
in a whirlwind of what will
never be, and what never
shall even be dreamed.

It’s admitting failure in
the eyes of wanting to change
what can’t be tamed, what has
not even occurred, with what
we could only paint in fantasies.

An illusion such as hope is
our own downfall – a harboring
destruction in our quake of
reality. It is eminent yet
no longer promising; rising
in our ashes only to spread
its wings and recant our spirits.

So why do we hold on for so long?