Her Brother Will Be Sitting in a Bright Wooden Cove

I stayed at the spot, where she reads and she writes,
and she knows that my breath is infected with death
for a kiss or a touch,
or the sound of a hush,
and the wind doesn't blow and the tree doesn't grow,
and I cease to exist in that moment of time,
and I can't see the difference between nicotine
and my breath,
in the frozen footsteps of that long-winding path,
around which her sandals stepped, weary of me.

And with each swollen shadow of dear, sweet Lenores,
that scurry and scuttle away from the doors,
I catch but a glimmer, so faint, such a shimmer,
of ravenous peering from the eyes in the floor.
But the girl never comes, and sickeningly, circuits begin to unwind in a pace-maker waltz.

The pills make me sick, and the coffee replies,
"that which a heart resents, surely, will die."
And I nod and agree as I tangle the keys with my burning dilemmas and half-open eyes.

But tomorrow, at ten, I'll step out of the cold,
and the heat will be as blaring as the emotion I loathe,
and her brother will be sitting in a bright wooden cove,
yet I dare not re-enter his solitude.

So I grit my teeth slowly, at the girl and her eyes,
so saccharine sweet,
so afoot with respite,
so empty, so vacant,
so false, such a lie,
so fucking non-existent, such a dream I despise.
and I lose track of caffeine like I lose track of time,
and I burn in this cell, so surreal and sublime.

And I center my thoughts on the chiming of clocks,
and I talk to myself, like I'm somebody else,
and I scribble a hymn to the girl I denied, until maybe,
I pray, she would tumble and cry,
and flourish with tears in her insomniac bed,
and become just a passing thought,
in the back of my head-
just an underexposed photo-
just grey,
and just dead.