The dying light of conformity is now merely an ember in my soul,
I find I cannot atone for liberating my being
Yet I wish I could be ignorant, it truly is bliss as they say
I find myself more detached every ongoing day

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

I always think I know it all,
Yet every day I learn so much.
I think of how I don't miss you at all,
Yet every night I yearn so much.
You were the spine to the book of my life,
The stitches closing the wound from their knife,
But now my pages are out of order, like a scrambled and hurriedly written essay,
And I'm bleeding out every second, even to this day.

What if your memories shattered like a plate, dropped from a kitchen table?
Would the fracture screaming through the porcelain cut through the darkest hours of your life, stopping you from saying those words that killed a flame you had with someone you weren't ready to part with?
Would that break in the chinaware cut through the air, and stop his hand from coming down on your cheek, already stained from your running mascara because of the words he said?
Would these memories have changed?
I think no.
Much like a broken plate, after a certain point, you can't go back to those nights and stop yourself, stop what they did, much like you can't go back to the second when your elbow brushed that plate just enough for it to topple over.
There's not much use in crying over a broken plate, but you can clean up your mess, and get a new one, a better one, and learn, to be more aware, for when that plate is about to fall.

No matter how many bridges I'd burn to create distance between us,
I'd always find a way back across the river to you,
But I'm running out of boats,
And soon I'll drown while making that crossing

It's not often that mere conversation like we had makes me feel so intrigued, but when you sang those few songs your voice made me feel tranquility in a dose I've truly never felt. My heart fluttered, and if I hadn't been floating in a pool I would have had to sit down, my knees were so weak. You couldn't see in the darkness but I was in awe, so much so that if we had been standing in a room full of art, I only could have looked at you.
I swear you turned the night sky into tie dye, a hippy haven for my mind. On heavens hill I found my soul, all my anxieties flowed out. I drank more slowly once your voice came forward, it was much more intoxicating than the lager I had chosen. I knew all these feelings may have been the alcohol, but I decided, **** it. I never feel intrigued, I was so surprised to have my interests peaked, that I would entertain myself and you, because for once, I didn't freeze.

I awoke the next morning, after sleeping off my chemicals, both the ones I ingested and the ones my body produced at the sight of such a pleasing specimen of the female form. I found my head hurting, but remembered the sights I saw, the glow of the stars and string lights, melted in my memory to form a tie dye blot, the colors meddled together. It was as astronomically beautiful as you had been the night before.