My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

You were always there, always in his head.

You were a one way conversation, incoming words remembered.

You were I love you, I want you, stay with me, I miss you… leave me…

Your voice, a loop in his head, a circular song leading nowhere.

Lifeless lifeless, going nowhere, but he knew the one thing he could do that’d make a whisper out of you.

A razor down his wrists, bleeding out on paper, liquor and opium to make it all a dream.

He closed his eyes, the world went away, and he made a whisper out of you.

She’s beautiful lying next to you, her arm across yours. She’s peaceful, gorgeous.

Looking at her just now, her so close, so warm, it feels better than morphine. She’s a perfect fix, she’s a high that isn’t lonely.

You want to lean over, to gently kiss her cheek, the side of her neck. You want to wake her with your lips, to look into her alluring brown eyes and tell her that you love her, that you want her. You run your fingers down the side of her face, you let her sleep.

She’s beautiful lying next to you, and you want her to stay, but just like any fix, she’ll be gone by morning.

She has gorgeous brown eyes, warm and alluring. The first time you saw them, her eyes smiling at you, you knew you were gone. You knew you’d do anything for those eyes.

Her inviting brown eyes say everything, one look and you know she’s brilliant, you know she’s kind, you know you want her.

You do want her, you want to know her, to know what makes her happy, what makes her sad. You can talk with her for hours, and it feels like minutes, it’s as easy as breathing, just as natural. You know her so well, yet not enough, never enough. You want her eyes to always reflect happy, you want to protect them from sad. Her brown eyes make you want to hold her close, to touch her soft skin, to gently run the tips of your fingers down her cheek, around her lips.

Her eyes lead to her smile, lead to her to her lips, lead you to a kiss. Her kiss is beautiful oblivion, makes a whisper out of so much noise. Still, it’s her seductive brown eyes that make you want that kiss, a kiss more intoxicating than any liquor, any drug.

You wonder what your eyes tell her, if they say, “I love you,” when words aren’t there.

You do love her, and you’re afraid to say. You’re afraid, but you want her to know just the same.

She’s all dark clothes, and dark hair, all goth at a glance from across the bar.

She’s sitting under a palm tree, fake and plastic, ugly against her beautiful, her pale skin, her cool blue eyes.

In all her darkness, she’s the brightest spot in the room, a shooting star in a lifeless place.

We walked down Alameda, sun fading away, a soft orange sky.

Lost in your eyes, lost in you, walking down a cracked sidewalk, not wanting it to end.

Thinking about your kiss, I felt no past. I felt a fleeting now, a futureless future. You’d be gone in the morning

We walked down Alameda, a song in my head and you in my heart.

You’re full of darkness and noise, and a thousand pretty pictures, completely vivid, but so far away .

The darkness, the noise, they’re closer than any lover. They’re constant.

Those thousand pretty pictures, those vivid images you can’t touch, they’re just pain. They’re a longing for slit wrists and bullets in your head, but you’re going nowhere.

You’re sitting in the dark, killing time, and going nowhere.

Alone on a Sunday, in a place you don’t belong, never belonged. Lonely and broken, a cracked mirror reflecting nothing but damage. You’re darkness that’s not understood, that no one thinks to brighten. You’re constant thought with nowhere to go, buried under unsaid words. You want to go home, but you can’t, so you’re alone on a Sunday.

I want to lose myself in blinding sex, or drugs that numb, vodka that burns going down, doors to anywhere but here. Here, my lifeless life, my endless lonely, where I drown in a stream of consciousness. Drowning without death, finding nothing but locked doors.

You’re all sex, and liquor, romance and sin. You’re all dark clothes, and dark music, dark words. America, baseball, apple pie, these things you’re not. You fit nowhere, tired of trying, searching, tired of wanting. You’re all lonely and bored, things you hate, and never lack.

I wonder if I’ll ever write my novella, my memoirs, something to be remembered.

I wonder if I’ll find my love, my muse, the death of my lonely.

I wonder if I’ll find my calm, my safe, the end of my nervous.

I wonder if I’ll die the way I think I may, slow and blue and quiet-like.

I wonder, and I wonder, then I wonder a little more.