i'm in your guest room, smothered in white blankets, bathed in the soft light of the city -- its sounds cradling me gently to sleep. and then you retire to your bed (drunk on bad wine) to find that it's still empty, for only the fourteenth time. then you start wailing and penetrating the thin veil of your faux masculinity, each cry cutting my heart like a knife. I'm in a cold sweat, stomach churning, blood flowing slowly. and I cannot stop this, each silence sequence a numb sense of peace. the muffled expressions of your novel heartbreak are offensive to what I once thought and still think you are. i miss the subtle and passive sighs of when we were awake, replacing emotion dialogue with silence not to break for all the things that have been thrown away, all the reasons nothing will be the same. trying to turn everything into poetry inside my head. there's no deeper meaning, no one will ever hear this again, you've spoiled the unspoken connection, I'll never hear the torturous bewails, three years later and I still feel the same.