Lost in Crazy..

There is still that room in my mind. With you at the center and a painting with all the green turned purple. Curtains down I still visit. Curtains up, it doesn't look like me anymore. The moon reflecting on my face and the sun bright right out of yours. It is you, but it isn't. And I am the person who peeled you to be. Yellow wallpaper falling off the cracks of my heart. Our history trenched underneath. Walk the line, we are not afraid anymore.

There was a time and a place where everything seemed fine because you loved me. When our voids collided into comfort. When our lips cracked into air. Cushion my heart.  Hold me tightly, but baby tear my skin. Torn is my skin; fiber to bone by the ten years passing and me still falling for the hairs on your back. Pull it apart; untether me from the shadow of your eyes ever too brightly staring into mine. But everything is hers now, and I am everyone else's.

How sinister it is for a memory to linger on skin like the very dark end of a very long tunnel, like an alcohol rub against an open wound, like my back pressed against hot asphalt. Like your hands never reaching for mine. And my heart walking out on yours. Like all my memories, bundled, hidden and trickling out the barrel of your shouting tongue. Burn me in my blood, waste it away. For every drop will grow a blossom. Evergreen, ever-reminding of what the little kids needed to feed/feel to be.

Your lips, my skin, the high and me thinking that this boy was made for us to meet. Isolated moments in time should stay there. In a place of nostalgia and maybe regret. Isolate that moment and put it in my hand. Curl it up. Forget it. Deny its existence, for personal growth requires matter and that was a void.

It is in the spaces between how far removed we feel we've become from everything that made us people, everything that made us real.      Enough time, enough disappointments and you'll become the one going beyond compromise for compromise.  What value is skin touched empty? What weight is flesh not torn apart? Life is not a path life is a metamorphosis, and how much we become at the end equates to how much we've pushed against the confinements we'll always be tangled in.  

The cigarettes I don't smoke, the face I used to know and the coolness in the heat. The pretty boy, the perfect music and my laugh. The home inside a home, Lana and my passion. The roll, the smoke, all our songs and the side of her face.

Fills us up quickly, Leaves us slowly, And puts us on a track that we spend the rest of our lives tracing. Escape the pattern.