DizzyLilDreamer

Two can embark on an endless journey,
with fingertips and heart strings entwined.
Tell me why seductive words
entangle our late night thoughts.
The longing of devious kisses.
Falling victim to toxicity,
You get your fix of me - 
It is draining
for my cup runneth dry.

My face is a candle.
Drip,
drip,
drip.
The wax melts,
and so does my touch with reality.
The guitar string is plucked.
I can see the vibration escape,
as it makes its way into my bones.
The music notes are butterflies in my stomach.
The sun is rising.
It radiates its joy as my skin soaks it up.
Each and every leaf floats down the tree,
one by one.
I can count them.
My hair stands on end,
and I can feel each and every one.
The Beatles are not just a band,
but a concept,
and I am one with them,
as they are with me.
My emotions are a river filled with deep intensity.
My heart is racing out of my chest.
My friend is my friend,
but also not my friend.
So does that make her my friend?

Imagine being stranded at the top of a snow-capped mountain.
The temperature was plummeted into negative degrees Fahrenheit.
You call out, but no one can hear your voice echoing down the mountain range.
It's just you.
You are alone,
but nothing but the clothes on your back,
and a backpack with limited resources.
You are lost.
Your friends have wandered off without you.
You cannot fathom how they could have left you like that.
How will you find your way back?
How will you survive in the harsh winter storm?

This is nostalgia.
This is the helpless feeling that attacks the human mind.
You long for the past.
You miss her warm smiles and cold fingertips.
It feels as if her icy palms hold your heart as it beats for her.
This is like being stranded alone in the mountain range.
Her smile that once kept you warm has faded,
and left you wandering in the winter storm.
This chilling nostalgia creeps up your spine and awakes you from your nightmares,
only to face the true nightmare,
that you live each day.
"I could have saved her.", you tell yourself as the blade kisses your wrists.
"I could have saved her."
You slide down the bathroom wall,
your hands gripping your locks of hair.
You want to cry,
but you feel too empty.
Too empty to feel a thing anymore.
Your blade is your only friend.
Your only friend that will never betray you.
Like she did,
when she left you,
in the winter storm.

What you've done cannot be mended,
like a tear in your favorite sweater;
like fabric into a precious quilt.
What you've done cannot be mended,
with sweet words,
bushels of roses,
and late night car rides;
with dinner dates, 
expensive gifts,
and undivided attention.
What you've done cannot be mended,
for you've sliced my heart so deep,
for you've filled my life with grief.

Sadness is a rain drop that trickles down a window pane.
Sadness is an unmade bed, with tussled sheets.
Sadness is the dismal, imaginary cloud, reigning high above a defeated man's head.
Sadness feels like being submerged into an icy river in mid-December.
Sadness sounds like eerie silence in the darkness of an alley.
Sadness looks like fingertips tracing a page, but never picking up a pen to write.
Sadness is a great wave, crushing against the inner walls of the human mind.
Sadness is surrendering to chilling nostalgia, of what life once was.
Sadness is a feign smile.
Sadness is disassociation from everything once treasured.