Not Waving, but Drowning

I only miss you when I'm lonely. Wipe the shavings off the carvings in my heart and let your memory remain. You come in waves. The sweet transcendence of your lips placed upon mine, fed by the discovery of young love - it's moment like these where I beg for another heart to hold you with, to lay your head upon, and with which I can love you. I feel you vacuum my emotions, drained out into the sewage of you, lit only by the reflections of the world outside your apartment window. Street lights bless me with near-sightedness, but my recollection provides further insight into what's beyond. Could you still love me like you had once before? Could emotions really just dry out and remain as the shallow shell inside a wishing well as they are now? Could I be the spark in your bejeweled eyes, the freckle of your iris, the reticle of your occult desires? The answer relies only in the scars I've collected through the years, etched with your name onto them. Wearing them as a proud owner of these medals of honor.

This recent pain has taken a toll beyond mere direct impact, the collateral damage has forever dragged me back and fixed every habit that I've broken. Binary heartbreak. How can I be stuck in a moment where the cure has now become another ailment on its own? The labels on my ribbon-scars are only owned by a deuce, yet it feels like my heart's been trod on like the remainders of war. A war held only deep in the confinements of my masochist head that once damaged, relieves itself of all the memories of loss it previously kept hidden away. Am I forever forsaken into making the same mistakes?

You were the seed, planted deep into my heart. Through my tears, I watered you and kept you safe and sound, and dragged you out through the best, but hardest, three years of my life. Yet, through all the photosynthesis you received from our golden times, the smoke and haze of the fire that you begun to burn began to expand and cover my eyesight. They say love is blinding, but I was lost in an absolute state of trance. Even now, watching and picking through our grayscale photographs I am nostalgic for the disaster we conceived. I wouldn't mind watching the world burn if you were here with me. Your seed has grown. You are a field to me.

Now, about her, she was the cure. I dragged my guts for seven months before I managed to sort myself back in place. She was the lantern at the end of the road. I'd spend every second trying to spot her face, hoping she could just sink into my eyes and read everything my heart was screaming but my mind was too proud to say. Besides, I was too busy unhooking my heart off the bear trap you laid it on. As time went by, through little wishes on stars and on unusual times at night, I realized that maybe I was just trying to keep myself from opening out of fear of ever loving again. The minute she asked me if she was in love with "the poet" (which by the way, was born out of the utter sickness and despair that your pain caused) my heart began racing unlike it never had before. She spoke the perfect words at the perfect timing. Her head would tilt slightly to her right when smiling. She would cry and be afraid and hide behind me. It's funny how the worst things in life can bring you to the very best. I'd feel the rush of my blood coursing and pouring down through my veins when I'd stroke her porcelain skin, and when her wide browns would stare at me, I would be caught in a moment, timeless and breathless.

Love is a conniving, lying, and secretive little bitch. I had never felt as I did with her, but I learned in the worst possible way that just because they say everything you want them to say, even with the rare gift of timing, it still does not assure to you that they are the One. She was not perfect, but was complementary in every right way. I was never listened to, I was ignored and made fun of. She thought my words sounded pretty. She held them on the palm of her hand and would cry from reading them. You merely packed them into a bookshelf of a thousand words that I gave to you and let them fall out of touch.

Now, don't take this the wrong way, but she cured from you. Yet, there is that subtle desire to go back to a time where things were careless and disaster was preferred. Where love and sex where one and the same and when I could spill my breath onto you and let my soul flow through your body. Aging opens the eyes to people, though. I can't stand the thought that I am merely a shadow of a time for you, not particularly because I have a desire to be so again, but rather because I do not want to be another shadow for anyone else. I'm just a footnote to dog days. I don't want to be just another hasbeen to another lost, loving wife.

I only miss you when I'm lonely, because I can't stand to care as much as I do now. Take me back to innocence and make me fall in love again, even if you're not you anymore and I'm not me, either. Take me back and spill onto my skin like you used to, back when we wouldn't give a shit. Take me back to the time where every new kiss felt like an absolute new finding. Take me back now and say that you love me, even if you don't love me.