Returning For Little Things

I return for little things
Unable to evacuate what rests
In memories stored.
Empty glass always seems half full,
No drink of you could be enough.
I languish within my own hell
Created of image I dreamt of you.

Rain does not crease
Pelting upon pane; I merge
Homeward bound under dull sky,
Endless green land holds no rosy flower
Or bounding white rabbit.

I rush in miles, no path paved with gold.
Alone I sit on this solitary road,
Not ignorant in knowledge
I continue to punish my soul.
Why does it feel there is
No safer place on earth
But wrapped in you?

It’s not climbing hills I mind,
But the lonely decline down,
Leaving you behind in a world
I am no longer part of.

Print to paper
Black to white
Sliced words suspend,
Eyes reflect depth of decay,
Meshed, trapped in barbed wire
Little movements tear us open,
Be still
Manipulate pieces as we struggle
To return to our original shape,
Utterly digested by boxed hope
Ripped open, greedy hands kneading
To the essence of tired bones.

As long as breath touches air,
I shall lie into your skin,
Blending upon unclean sheets.
Season of time changed us
Not the strength
Which rests silently between.
Be still
When I am in your arms
Returning for little things.