Hours spent staring into empty cardboard boxes
pretending I have found that thing I've lost.
Hours spent cleaning up an empty room.
because I was certain someone would visit my physical manifestation of thoughts.

Let me dust this place off, the imaginary shelves that carry every chapter of my life.
I stare each one of them down, my eyes drifting from spine to spine.
"Which one carries you?", I ask myself as I take a step back.
Because I felt okay then and I'd like to experience it again.

I swear my desk used to tremble and shake in front of a dusty window as I wrote in frenzied, fast strokes.
I used to practically attach an IV to my ballpoint pen as I fed it the sorrow that ran straight through my veins.
It was almost always black or red that soaked up my paper's personal space.
Looking back, I never got to see what color you bleed or what words you embraced.

But that is long gone now, I suppose, and I refuse to cling onto the feeling of love.
Rather I'll absorb and be remorseful of the feeling of letting it all go.
I guess it's my own fault then, really, that this all feels so lonely and empty.
Because I pushed away everything else to spare myself of any more knowledge of losing what keeps you sane; I'd rather accept the fact I'm crazy.

Soon, when the roof comes caving in and the morning glories wrap themselves around my slender wrists.
When the orange sun rises and gifts me it's last radiant kiss,
When the birds can land in a broken home, finally seeing what broke it apart from the inside.
When the rhythm from my crumbling soul's strength in solitary is amplified
Maybe I can accept and find comfort within my own being's stride

But before I can, there's questions I must ask so that I may sleep better tonight.
What makes your anxious hands flutter? What taste lingers on your dry tongue?
Are your lips still cracked like weak bones but fruitful like red wine?
Do you spend hours just thinking about youth wasted, love hated, and that specific amount of time?

Do you still hide your cigarette buds in flower pots?
Have you managed to grow your own cancer yet to suit your scorpio?
Have you finally located what represses your heart's ability to care?
Is it a simple little blood clot that created so much wear and tear?

But most importantly, what color do you bleed?
What lies directly underneath the embodiment of anger you presented to me?
Who was that person I must have met twice,
once when they loved me and the other that simply changed their mind?