The city has become so empty, the streets are quiet and the conversations mundane, I want to hear you, I want to feel you and I wish I could silence the screaming. My words have lost themselves in the cracks of my heaving chest I am lost here in this space a pointless city that has become an island far away from you.
I sit here wallowing at the bottom of wine bottles seeking solace in the drunken haze and stupor I feel, somehow the intoxication of it all numbs the heart and that heaving chest is nothing more than a buzzing annoyance.
In my despair I spin around in a web of schizophrenic confusion, longing and begging and sending messenger pigeons with every word that comes to mind…. Besides living in a drunken peasants palace, sleep stalks me, I find that at times mornings do not exist to me, the day can come and night may fall and in my slumber I may not realize…. I have found that I cannot realize or recognize myself.
Just the mere idea or whisper of your love send me into a deep fold that I am used to, the same that I live to ignore. It seems to love you I have to choose between living or dying and the blur between the two is so great that I feel I may have died even before I had met you.
I know my words mean nothing to you they are as important as the floating leaves in an autumn wind, but just the thought of me writing to someone I cherish so deeply brings me comfort for I am afraid that I may have lost myself deep in my emotions and my mental stability possibly may not return to its former glory.
I hold so much of you in me that, the thought of me never loving you becomes an impossibility. It seems living is not living without the anticipation of your embrace. I have become a graceful mess dead amongst the living laden with anger and ready to leave, the people upstairs tell me stories of how I should get better, get even, but the entire city has died to me
