alone with four years ago

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.

My most productive thought so far
was counting the seconds somebody will call for help
if a car ran me over.
And if nobody did
will you find me?

These thoughts are familiar, they have plagued my mind
many nights for a long time
until I met you, until I was given more to think about
instead of car crashes, of late night wanders, of escape.

But these thoughts scare me, they push me in
and make me weep like a child with scraped knees.

I cried for all the beautiful things
still trying so hard to shine a light on me
sitting in a corner where all is shadowed and refracted.
I cried for the moments
that make my heart skip a beat
and my insides erupt with ecstacy,
the moments I feel so strongly
every now and then
like the hint of sun in these ungrateful Manchester days.

My body is drained and metaphorically
out of proportion but I cannot sleep
because the sheets feel different this morning
and the walls are breathing down my bones
giving me shivers even the coldest night out
could not.

I cried for a day of
too many cigarettes and
too little food. Of nausea, of strain
of weakness.

The side effects all seem too familiar
and I feel them just from watching
the healing process of a genuine soul
slightly jaded and restrained
and I feel them so deeply
because I cannot contain my emotions in a box
even though at times like these, I should.

I learn to steer my thoughts for my own keeping.

I cried in greeting to the next six days of the week
steadily turning into a blur of selflessness,
of commitment and obligation, the next six days of
not enough hours to lie in bed
and wish for nothing
because even my days are now not my decisions to make.

The best of times are when I am in your arms
shaking my head at everything I feel now,
because we promise each other things always get better
and they do. Always.
But I cry today because you are not here
and things are not better
and no leaflets or photographs or cigarette buds
or mantras can shake my momentary loss of balance.

I weep for the happiness we bring to each other,
scribbled on crumpled paper and locked in glass bottles,
for the hurt that it all mistakingly latched itself upon.

I have to remember the ability to recycle these useless waste of feelings.
I have to remember the ways of an expert healer,
of closure and of resistance.
I have to remember how to withstand feeling sick and tired.
I am sick and tired.

So fucking tired.

Within an hour, I have wept seven times.
Four times for good reason, three times for
all the pain this world brings with life.