There's still a shade of green in here.
It pains me to think that I may never again touch the only skin that ever gave me life. It pains me more to think that I may never again touch a mind as beautiful as life itself. Like yours. Torture, it's the only word. To never be able to laugh until I cry, remain in physically painful stitches until we just stopped and stared at each other. You with pity at the entertainer, me with love or one of its variants, at a goddess. I remember trying so so hard to delay your tears until I could be there to catch them. But I wasn't a good handkerchief. I wasn't a good shoulder. I haven't written a poem in months. They were all for you. I was all for you. Where now there is no audience worthy of my stupor, they would not have it even if there were. It is not for them, that entire part of me is for you. I've dried up and taken pretend happy instead. Not today. Today I admit to myself that one whiff of your scent can send me spiralling high into the air, that I had to remember where I work, who I am, why I feel, only after it left... becoming suddenly conscious, then fading back to sleep. Because of a few particles atomically under three hundred. That smell. That smell is life through the nostrils, the hardest drug in the world. Nothing blue, red, white, brown, crystallised, powdered, vaporised or burnt will ever hit me like that smell. I don't get to feel the reality anymore. I wasn't responsible when I was allowed. I fell instead of catching. I could not stand and help you up, for that distance was too much. I would rather have fallen, so that when you do I would always be closest to you. That's not what you need. You need a hand to help you up. I want you to do it yourself. By now, I'm living atop a mountain where the valley pf people live happy, content and enfuriatingly ignorant. The man on the mountain is never happy knowing that he once touched the sun, but now the clouds are eternal. I want a gun that shoots flowers and a bomb that rains infectious material across millions at a time. The bomb that comes in 30 minute doses through a black mirror but makes you feel content for the entertaining of a minute you think about nothing. Like a happy cancer. Particles of that feeling you get when someone loves you, lying dormant until they are needed most. Yayayayaya yaya yaya. The happiest time of my life was a lie. That's proof enough to me that the truth is unimportant. I feel history repeating itself. Another life I'll ruin or ignore. I don't want the clouds anymore. If I can't have the sun, I don't want the mountain. Drop me to the bottom of the ocean. Because without that sun it is no more than a fountain. Let me touch darkness so great it knows not of the sun that gave it meaning. Without light there is no significance in darkness. Without light. Without light. Without light.
