I've been told a few times that the fact that 

I was bad with dates would be my downfall one day.

But as selfish as I am, I'm glad that I don't remember

the exact dates of certain things in my life. 

Because if I did, then I think it'd be harder for me 

to get over you when important dates of our 

time together ambled closer. I don't think I'd be able 

to bare the brunt of a sharper memory of you.

I don't know why I still love you. 

I drunkenly skyped you.

Then I cried myself to sleep.

And I don't even remember it.

I babbled a lot of 'sorry's', and 'forgive me's.

But I made sure to tell you I love you. 

I said this quietly.

And Apparently, you still love me too.

You said this quietly.

At least, that's what I was told happened.

I hope my friends not lying.

Because the makeup tear stains on the 

pillow and my shirt must mean something.

Friends don't kiss.

Do they?

I don't know anymore.

I tried going back to wearing my heart on my sleeve.

It's fucking terrifying.

So I pulled back in.

What courage did I once have?

More importantly where did it stem from?

It doesn't matter now.

I'm afraid to take leaps.

But being bitter is tiring

So I'll stick to a slow pace.

I'll crawl if I have to.

I can't be stagnant.

I guess this is a true testament of time.

I've changed.

Lips meeting if only to find something that isn’t there.

Because, why the hell not?

Just a little longer I’ll bear.

Pressing closer in hopes to feel-

So irritated- I reel.

Frustration pricks at my attention

Cool hands. Cool breath. Damn. Nothin’

A sigh and a swift step away into another’s chest

Taller, he’s taller and his smile knowing.

A cigarette proffered. A hand shake. A Lighter.

A drag and soothing warmth.

Good enough. No. Better.

Obvious to Even My Eyes.

You wish to hate her. But you cannot find a good enough reason to do so.  So you just love her and love her and love her for that tired but beautifully resilient soul. You wish to hate her, but you come to realize that you are not the only one privy to those dusty crevices in her mind. You wish to hate her even when she's sinking- but you just fucking can't. Even at her worst.

Destitute

You hope to write of it as though it is not that incorrigible word that your heart reverberates with when teetering on the brink of rest. As though it is more or less than what it truly is. But you know it is but one thing that consumes you when you leave yourself to... well- - yourself. And it is most pitiful because in those moments your vices are what look ridiculously enticing. It is warm saccharine to your clouded lungs and slender company to your nimble fingers.

Her resident insomniac

It was always the warm timbre of his voice whispered against her skin that would stir her senses into wake. Then the outline of his troubled brow would come into view and an apology would slip past his lips.