Souls That Never Sleep

I'm longing. It's destroying me. I want and they give but it isn't enough. I want to hold him close but he slips through my fingers. Behind my dark lids, I burn.
I don't know where I am.

Looking like her will never be. Never. But I want it so bad. It hurts.
I crave and I lust. It's never enough.
Why can't tomorrow come today?

Arms and legs intertwine,
pulling back my head,
lips crushing my cries,
hard and demanding... I have so much to give. I have so much to give.

I see him... he doesn't see me. He doesn't want to know me. It's long and far away. A distance I can never bridge.

Lust burns fast... like paper. The ashes blow away and
nothing is left.

This crazy way of fun drains me. Emotion sickness overtakes me.
I feel the wind,
the grass in my hair,
the fingers on my lips.
I have a treasure deep inside. Unwilling to be opened, its wonders to be given only to he who loves me. It is my pride. It is my joy. So few have come this far. The only feature holding my body together.
There is something so alluring of the heartbreaker.

The intoxicating dream of being the one to mend his reason for pain. Being in the lead is rewarding. Coming second is manipulating. Tell yourself you'll stop before it's too late... you'll be lucky to come through unscarred.

This secret has lived it's life.
Time for burial.
Visit the gravestone and miss the coffin's captive. The lips and the eyes that are dead for you. Or many others. But for you, they are cold,
frozen,
buried
six feet under your heart that still feels, and only god knows why. Everytime you think of him you bust the wound. It never quite heals the same. Does it.

Confused beyond all belief, he writhes in his sleep next to me. I want to touch his head and put his pieces back together.

I wish I could sing a song of my own. It would be titled by him, inspired by him and closed with a tortured kiss.

Eyes painted dark and heavy, looking out through swollen sockets.

Stains on my cheeks and neck.
The shoulder of his shirt tells a story all too vivid.

Half moons pressed by painted lines,
evenly spaced and hurting.
I long to hold him in my arms at night. He has no name. Just him, the one who will bury his face in my neck and breathe deep. Steady.
Waiting for the one who will strum my story...

Blessed I may be, I can never get my hair to stay.
It falls in thick strands. Around his fingers. It's there for weeks.
Until he washes those used up sheets.
Sheets that tell horrors to my heart.

The envy that greens my throat and chokes me gently.

Time for this to find an end.

***

This is the poem that really launched my writing habit. This is also probably the only poem I've ever really edited. I'm not a big fan of editing. Probably because I'm no good at it, and if this poem doesn't show evidence of that, I don't know what does.