the sky at nighti watched the sky this eveningand the stars that shone within itand the moon that glimmered brightlyi fought to see the man therebut his face still eludes mei wanted to say hellojust to tell him i knew he was thereso that he wouldn't feel so alonei waited for a shooting starbut none ever camei sat all nightwaitingwishing up silent still ones insteadi said goodbyeeventuallywhen the man decided to leaveand the stars all went to sleepand then i slept alsoi hoped i'd see him tomorrowand that a catapulted starwould cross my horizonbecause i need to make a wish.
the man i eat breakfast withI liked to watch him buttering toast. He would spread the butter from one corner to the next, leaving a crisp blank in the center and then, as if only just remembering, buttered the empty space. He would eat it slowly, savoring each bite as if toast were the most delicious food ever created. Day after day, I watched him. On days that he was later than usual, I waited. I wanted to watch him buttering toast.As time drew on, and we became almost friendly towards each other, with a civil nod or a brief 'How are you? with the possibility that the other actually cared about the comings and goings of the opposite. We shared glances; we passed the milk and would often offer the last piece of toast to each other. I always wanted him to have it - it would allow more surrepticious observation on my part.In truth, it was not the toast or the butter, or even the knife that caught my attention that first time, and subsequently held it for weeks on end. It was his hands. They were
roboticcannot wait any longercannot draw another breathbody breaking far too quicklymind working too far behindsince i woke without understandingsince i hurt myself without realisingsince i left my heart in your open handsi have been malfunctioningrobotic thoughts slip throughthe cracks that are appearingmotions are becoming jaggedlife remains, but hope is gonewhy wait another second?why pray for difference?body breaks a little moremind falls out of existence.
masochistic halfI can never close my eyes soon enough. I see your shadow just as they fall shut, and I clench my fists and scream inwardly. Because, in reality, you were never really gone. Simply creeping up behind me, with the mask from that masquerade ball shutting out your features. I cannot see your cruel eyes laughing at me because of it. But this is maybe a good thing, because if I could see them, I would die. Not a fantasy death, not a lie - a real, blood and guts death. My heart would split in two, for there is still a part of me that loves those evil eyes. That part wants you to laugh at me. Yes, yes - kick me to the ground. Yes - tell me I am worthless. Yes - make me feel your hate in the only way you know how. I want to feel your hate.But the other, more naive half, believes that if I can keep my eyes closed, you will go away. This part of me begs you to stop when you are showing me your hate. It pleads, which only makes you hate me more, but I don't think like that. Thi
complex ideasi have been contemplatinglifein all its complexityand have come to understandthat nothing is quiteas it seemsyou, for examplewill never wear the same shirt twiceand yet you are untroubledat the idea of waking upnext to the same personfor the rest of your lifei, on the other handdrink absinthe by the bottle-fulland laugh at my own jokeswhen, actuallyi find nothingfunny at all.
freedom and captivitywe'll dreamlike fanciful puppetsof the life that could beof the love we could shareof the times we could havewe'll fallinto realityand realise that lifeis strung up and controlledby cackling demonsthat measure evilright and wrongjustice and anarchywe'll liein each others armsand sighbecause we cannot be togetherwe cannot love each otherwe cannot be free.