Loving you was like seeing absent color,
the unforgiving grays of a poet's December,
waking from a nightmare to a sky devoid of
stars and the moon sunk in the ocean.

The moment I laid eyes on you was the epoch
of my detachment
the collapse of all serenity.

You told me that your parents were separated-
And I believe that made you afraid of love.
I begged you to haunt me, when the lights were off;
"What are you hiding from? What do you feel?." I'd plead

You had went to the other side of the bed and stared
Down at your laptop, hands, then backpack.
Myself , wrapped self-consciously in the sheets,
you looked at me with empty eyes and said;
"I think you need this more than me. It's the closest thing to my heart."

It was then that I knew you were something I could not truly have.

In our opening scene, I patiently waited for you to look at me again,
Standing at the door. I chose to step forward and make a move.

I knew it wasn't just your kindness.
It wasn't just the charisma I had shown.
It wasn't just curiosity.
What flows, what keeps that illogical feeling alive?
Kept you sitting beside me, then drew you back and to my house?

When I replay your psychosis in my head,
that crimson knife is the only thing with color.

welcome...