there was a time when i would hang on your every breath,
wait on the corner in the rain for you, calling a cab home.
and this is the feeling after killing yourself,
to destroy the better part, replace with the bitter
as the long silence before the hidden appears.
whether Sun or Moon, neither of you help me to sleep
and the stars who shimmer afore are no where to be found.
wishing one day the self you suffocated would turn red,
gasp for breath and make a believer out of a lover. instead
the words you mumble become truths you wish you didn’t know,
the breaths become a memory, and home turns into
the Promised Land you hope someday exists.