So, Why do I Write?

We disintegrate, in the smoke of your cigar.

We fall apart with my cold shoulder.

You embrace me, and I shrug.

You kneel before me,
I try to smile.

Inside me I feel the stone lifted,

With my independence,

But a greater hollow,

As you leave my side

After a kiss at night.

My body aches and it’s not a drowsy numbness,

The nightingale’s dead.

We cling to rhythm, to poetry, to pseudo-aesthetics

In our hearts we break into pieces as we breathe.

Is it me, or do you feel it too?

Layers of masks and faces,

Layers within me, layers I keep with you too.

I assured you transparency,

And I feel failing miserably.

My dreams I can’t find anymore.

I live in the moment, to you as I swore.

I block the past, the future,

I look at the present, for your sake.

The bleak tomorrow, the blotched last night –

I ignore them; and so I write.