In this, our home that insecurities built,
we jump to the worst conclusions.
Mistakes become crimes,
sadness to depression.
And love is all but forgotten-
tucked away neatly between books on the shelf.
Not missing.lost.gone, just
waiting. For something.
These walls have turned shades darker
with the looming prospects of tomorrow.
I regress to this lingering feeling of
not knowing the difference between
that which is ours
and
that which is mine (for your convenient use).
My heart and my mind struggle
with this endless debate
whilst my stomach pays the price-
swirling your words and my alcohol down the drain.
No one should affect me like this.
Ever reliant, guilt kicks in
as your scent on this pillow
breaks my heart
and I'm not sure why.
You've done nothing wrong-
yet still I cry as I beg this night to end.
I'm afraid I'm losing my mind,
terrified I'm not.
I'd write Dear Abby
sign my letter "Lonely And In Love"
but I wouldn't know what to say.
My eternal optimism battles my forever pessimism
"Maybe it is a surprise/That has never happened.
But just maybe.../Maybe you're sleeping alone again.
Yeah."
And I finish, no better then when I started.
Only with less ink.
"And still alone./
And still alone."
