Fucking Hell,

Another dream.
But this time
it was different.
I don't want
you to think
any less of me,
but I'm still
holding on.
You were there
and so was I
and that was how it was,
until you got distracted
and I turned and walked away.
The only difference
is that this time
you followed.
You took my hand.
And I don't want you
to think any less
of me,
but I can't help
but wait
for that moment
which I know
may never come.

And here's the truth
in so many words:
sometimes at night
I toss and turn,
caught up
in a cold sweat
because of a dream
that I just had
or one I know
I'm going to,
and sometimes
I can't breathe.
For the record,
I've never shed
a tear for you
(but for maybe once,
in a dream of its own),
and I don't intend to.
I don't want you
to think any less of me,
but I somehow
just can't forget.

Obviously I'm still writing poetry about you.

I started scribbling poetry in the margins and gaps of One Hundred Years of Solitude.. I can't help if it's mushy or absurdly fiery and shit ok, Marquez has that affect on me, so don't judge:

In my youth,
passionate,
restless,
unrequited love burns
in my heart
as though it has been licked
by the two-pronged tongue
of a dragon.

Searing holes
unlike arteries
until my heart is nothing more
than rotten fruit,
worm-eaten
and useless
(from the inside out).
A bad apple,
you might say.

Locked up for a rainy day
that is destined never to come,
my heart awaits relief
the stubborn clouds
are unwilling to provide.
Looking to the sky,
the heavens are no help.
Instead I dress myself up
in the image of happiness
and resort to a rain dance
until the sky will comply.

Perhaps this is only youth,
passionate,
restless.

365

Look back at my journal.
I realise that I haven't written
in almost a year.
One entry,
365 days.

And I hate entries about boys,
but this one was.

The only entry
about a boy,
the only boy
I didn't turn down.
The only one
who turned me down.

Not this...again.
A phone call
that makes me think,
I shouldn't be reading this,
and forces me
to put down
Love in the Time of Cholera,
and instead pick up
One Hundred Years of Solitude.




My life sentence?
It could be.

Stupid Question,

but I have to ask it anyway:

Does the aching ever stop?