What do we do with all the time wasted together?
Stares exhanged in ***** hours,
Silent seconds ticked as our spellbound eyes
Took beauty in, sight devoured.

I used a multitude of minutes attempting
To beat insecurity, show you your worth,
You'd listen, I could tell you didn't believe,
But each night I drifted to sleep thankful for your birth.

Feasting on the flow of flattery we voiced,
To fill empty parts with desire,
Through my lowest days you stayed by my side,
I did the same even dead-tired.

I've accepted I will not gain back the years,
I lived in a haze, wish they felt real,
You think I abandoned our love,
The longer we were together the worse you made me feel.

What percentage of the time

do you lie in that bed?
     the rest a waste
          of the metal springs
                    forged by
                    factory workers
                    pouring in their
                    unpaid overtime
                    to meticulously
                    shape the steel
                    into just the right
                    comforting bounce
     a waste
          of the soft cotton cover
                    picked by
                    (slave-descended) hands
                    white fluff
                    still echoing centuries
                    of black oppression
                    spun on foreign looms
                    shipped back
                    across the seas
                    dyed, woven,
                    stretched taut
                    into just the right
                    soothing texture
     a waste
          of the foam stuffing
                    made from...
                    whatever goes into
                    foaminess...
     how many hours wasted?
     daily
     weekly


What percentage of the time

do you write with that ballpoint pen?
     the rest a waste
          of the clear plastic casing
                    melded from petroleum
                    by corporations
                    extracting black gold
                    in exchange
                    for greenhouse gases
     a waste
          of the tiny perfect sphere
                    rolling smoothly along
                    tungsten carbide surface
                    exquisitely crafted
                    for maximum efficiency
                    by man's finest machines
                    factories churning out
                    thousands by the hour
     a waste
          of the bright blue ink
                    the mysterious mixture
                    of dyes and pigments
                    and oils and surfactants
                    spilling onto the page
                    recording your
                    delicate thoughts
                    in desperate
                    existential hope
                    they won't be as oft ignored
                    as that device
                    from which they pour forth
     how many hours wasted?
     monthly
     yearly


What percentage of the time

do you sit in that reclining chair?
do you walk in those polished dress shoes?
do you eat with that bent spoon?
do you style your hair with that fine-toothed comb?
do you turn the pages of your favorite book?
do you see by lamp's light in the guest bedroom?

     how many hours
     sitting unused, wasted?
          in a life

He wants you to know that he feels wasted.
The feeling of ash in his mouth, tasteless, 

but the numbness he feels isn’t painless, just nameless.
He thinks you think yourself blameless but his hatred, though baseless; shapeless and aimless, reckless,

is tenacious; holding him in stasis. Sleepless. Wakeless.


“You took all that I had and spread it out like a selection on a cheese board for all to see, but you… You kept my heart for yourself. And every now and again you return to it and watch, pressing down slowly upon the needles that hang there like some strange, disturbed voodoo doll. Well, when the needles have been pressed through, they’ll have nowhere left to go, and the holes that you leave, will heal over tenfold.”


  Waste not, want not.

  Want not, waste not.
                  Wasted not, wanted.
                  Wanted not, wasted.
                   Wasted no. Not wasted. He just feels it.

I promised myself I'd call today
so that I could somehow convey
that I think of you an awful lot,
but I'm sorry. that's as far as I got.

It's happened before. Probably will again.
And each time I think I will call you when
my emotions are less raw and calm down a bit,
so you only hear Happy in the words I transmit.

But doubt flickers behind it all,
killing the idea and I don't call.
And always, I re-vow my intent
but I'm sure you thought me negligent.

How could you know though? Surprised, I cry.
All those indecisive moments have passed me by.
Those moments I chose silence were easier on my fears,
but my God, all those moments have turned into years!

So today, please don't be quite so inclined
To believe you were never on my mind.
You were-so much-but all the what-ifs
effectively induced my paralysis.