dusty masterpiece candles

I'm troubled. The sort of way that a candle drips, melting wax, covered and reaching. The way it dances. The way a burn nearly chokes freedom, throwing it to the ground.

This is it, simply - right now (and yes, I can't speak for later. But, all of you with your hope and dream world bullshit, drown your heads) I just want.

I sat at the long wooden table, bare besides my elbows and my tired body sprawling. A glass of red wine. On the couch sat my mate sipping the wine I poured. And in between she sat on the arm rest, all smiles. She said she sleeps on her tummy and that she has sinus issues. I gulped my wine and grabbed two beers. I set one on the table in front of my mate. My back was turned to her. I felt her eyes. She watched me drink my beer. No satisfaction. This is the trouble.

There are times when it pulls and she's there for you. But the physical is gone and the only way to cope is to drown. So, you drink. You smoke. You just cover it all up. I honestly don't know where the root lies. And why this is a means of handling the situation. Perhaps it is a sign, a scream of pain. An "i want you" and "I'm lonely."...because I am. And there are lots of women. I know this. But for everyone it always comes down to simplicity. Not wanting to deal with it. The tiresome escapades. The wandering nights, lost and alive with the nearly unbearable. So quiet too. Just alone. Nothing needs to be said.



I can remember where i sat when I wrote a poem. And that it was not about 'her'...But, i know this is a mistake now. because it is about her.
The writing is not your own, one must understand. Foolish.
you fool.
I think that, my time is limited here ("here") so I want to talk with you and pull the hair from your eyes, and she smiled yesterday at the refrigerator when I thought that just now.
it is so quiet and lonely to think this way. I wonder if I love it more than anything else. just wanting more.
I love it.
i can make her into such a fucking masterpiece.