You provide the lined paper and I am the pen,
anything and everything we could ever want to be...

Your soul is a harvest gold
phone booth...

You will say I upturned soil so I would have...
over ruins, not only the last action but giving up...

There were never any deaths on those
cold-hearted tiles, but there was a prominent...

Sour milk infecting my mouth,
anxious legs cramped...

Emotions are not exclusive from
violent bursts of negative energy...

Your love for me was never questionable...
my expectations were outright unrealistic...

I don't care about touch, what
chases me is not tangible but...

I want to be found
in you...

Oddly, you're
calming to me...

I can't keep you from
rising in my heart...

Another poem to my depression:
You are what I slip on...