Scratching lines into my walls, I counted our yin and yang: tick marks for good,
slashes for bad. Unlike the black and white circle, balance was lost:
on finishing, the picture held the semblance of a heart,
torn in two, as if pulled apart by a child's hands, rough with ragged edges
from the carelessness of youth.

Now I wonder if I should kill just to feel alive,
or go on seeking my other half so that one day I'll hold her tight
and we'll let our imaginations fly away, into nothingness,
where our minds will meld together in one space
where the brown roots intertwine, under the earth,
as the petals fall above our heads and we pretend the apocalypse of winter isn't here,
and ignore the paper strips that fall from the shrinking skylight
that dies from the overtake of darkness at just sick o' clock these days.

While I rummaged through the pile of what we used to be,
I realized the closest thing to love was a speck of sand
in comparison to its true face, or what I hope it really is.

How we teetered on our confusions so long kills me,
and I hold no regrets and I'll try to forget
but the time I spent with my infinite thoughts was wasted,
along with opportunities for exploring "what ifs?"

No going back now.

I won't let go of the possibility for what I seek becoming mine.
Spring's coming from the far away;
I can hear the echoes of its footsteps as it approaches,
even with time slowing as it draws near to hinder eventuality.

When those tears came I could only ask if I'd been given a heart,
the one I had wished for, or if it was deceit that was presented
and I remained the numb poet that muses on empirical questions,
like a robot asked to love, while its creator is amused,
knowing it's not real, just a cheap replica of humanity,
a mockery that lives on reason alone.

You're the killer, you always were.

The illusion of time moves on, however, and I'll ride it
'til I find my complement in a lover. And when fortune smiles,
we can let our bodies give in to their own instincts, as we speak
without saying a word from our arbitrary places of thought
and become our own pile life and all that goes with it,
even as we approach complete isolation from the world.

Then, nothing will matter, but the single link between her and I,
the clasped hands of eternity, relentless, while we move towards the void
of old age, knowing our screams will go unheard by anyone else,
knowing we'll be all that's left of us.

Time to move on.