Sleeping.

Last night you looked at me when you thought I was sleeping,

You looked at me with the same disbelieving expression that can be liked to that of finding of a bruise somewhere on your body after a night on the piss,

“How did this happen”… “How did this happen?”

Lover, you sleep like you’ve been lying in a field of Agent Orange,

Eyes as black as the depression they were given for free,

Lover, you sleep like you’re dead.

I’ve never written a love poem before, but I can try,

Because you wouldn’t stop looking at me last night.

Maybe it was something growing, silent,

Like cancer

In your minds eye,

That suffocated sleep like a vine,

Pulverized till it died,

Leaving only wide eyes rotting love themselves from the inside.

Last night I was free to fly.

Before you, life felt like a swarm of maggots,

Magnestised baggage eating me alive in the havoc,

But I offered out my hand and you grabbed it.

 

You quickly became my art form,

My plastic covering against some electrical storm.

Re-writing every cell that was graffitied with ex-lover where your skin went finger painting over mine,

Consigned to me for redesign.

But I wouldn’t change anything.

 

Last night you looked at me when you thought I was sleeping.

I turned over to hide as if you could see the one night stands I’ve been wrapping around my body like wedding bands,

I hid like an embarrassing photograph that you forgot you’d left in your back pocket,

Like I was something to be severed.

Like a hand or a foot, or a human, less.

I thought that you would cut me off like an infection.

Lover, you cried like a straight jacket maggot.

Sticky tears like blood or liquid agate,

Lover, I wish you wouldn’t get so upset,

We were just a game, both lost to the other player,

Fell down through the multi-layer.

I should’ve probably told you I was awake,

Or kissed you,

Or something at least.

But you wouldn’t have heard the words,

The same way I don’t hear the words,

The way I just tried to avoid the sight of your face as you dropped it down into the trench of your open palms,

Like a boy fresh out of boot camp

Who just dropped their gun

Into somebodies cradle.

 

When a lover cries, what does that feel like exactly?

Like dynamite hissing through a funeral, was there ever a more destructive sound?

Next time, I wish you’d just sleep.

You are a work of art when you do.

 

To speak is fantastic,

To touch is magic,

 

To love is something else.

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