Hello, Stranger.
We’re taking turns. I’ve decided. It’s polite and it keeps me from yelling. When it’s your turn again, you can talk. For five years, I’ve had to live by the choices of my doctors. The guys that cut me open decided my life. There wasn’t one choice that was mine. Now, I have this heart that beats, that works. I get to be like everybody else, I get to make my own decisions, have my own life, do whatever the damn hell I choose. Now here’s the good part, so you listen close. What I choose… is you. You’re who I want to wake up with and go to bed with and do everything in between with. I get a choice now. I get to choose. I choose you. Okay, it’s your turn again.

“Kingdom Come”
“Goodbye to You”
And it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time.
I want what’s yours and I want what’s mine.
I want you but I’m not giving in this time.
Love has a way of ripping you apart just as much as it has a way of holding you together, and this piece is a gut-level-honest tug and pull of affection and affliction felt between two lovers.
It’s a little bit horrifying just how quickly everything can fall to crap. Sometimes it takes a huge loss to remind you of who you care about the most. Sometimes you find yourself becoming stronger as a result; wiser, better equipped to deal with the next disaster that comes along. Sometimes, but not always.
Pain.
I thought that everything would be fine
after my funeral speech that I passed through the wind -
until it reached the flares of your dust bin.
I still have all reasons to vilify your intoxicating memoir.
I do not know how to rest this bygone.
Your silence - the sound that I know so well -
loiters the nerves in my ears,
extricating the caged affection that I still have for you.
I will be half way to anywhere.
Soon.
Hopefully.
Your poisonous charm is epidemic.
Undetected.
Incurable.
It feeds on the softest part of the unknown.
One.
Two.
Three.
Hemorrhage.
Now that you are bathing in the oblivion.
Now that you are at the center of your universe.
Beguiling.
Everybody sexualizes your Machiavellian ego.
Narcissistic.
Deceitful.
The mirage of your figurative burial
represents my closeness to Utopia - my ultimate.
I still want you to suffer.
Shackled.
Haunted.
Defenseless - the victim.
I want you to be vanished.
Killed.
Myself.
Your Mephistopheles.
“Almost Lover”