A Short Poem of The Self

I sit here, writing these words, as in blood on my hands wasn’t enough to speak in silence. I reach for your invisible light, as hope drips from my heart turning the ground to tar. I tap on your door, I wait, I smoke, I hum an old tune of an old lover. I stare at the rust on the knob, and realize, everything will always remain, kissed by time, frozen in the memory of our soul. The wind blows a weird shadow over the small flowers fighting the chill of winter, I still stand waiting to hear the echoes of your footsteps walking down the hallway of my heart, only to hear them disappear once more, into the darkness of my eyes. Why blame the stars up in that sky, well we all know they had a choice, or do they? The mystery will never unfold, as cards fall upon the table and the moment of truth keeps coming up with excuses, because we all want to hear lies, because the truth turns us into victims, into mere humans who become vulnerable and create sea water with their eyes... Swim, come swim, strangers and lovers, in the vast darkness of your light. Come tell me your stories of the life you never had, tell me of the dreams that sucked you dry. Tell me things that only you can imagine, just tell me something. I smoke, I watch the smoke turn into me and I realize in the madness of the moment, that you must not be home. And down the empty street I retrace my steps, with these bloody hands, that broke trying to save you.