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,
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.