you.

You, my love

will never know the agony that lies between the ashen tombstones,
the tortured skyscrapers; with their many eyes.
or the autumn seasons that speak litanies of ancient romance.

you will not care to understand the emptiness
of rooftops, car-parks or grave-yards.
you spit upon the poetry of these painted streets, my love.

you are blind to the shadows and the souls that fumble in the fades,
deaf to the tongueless darkness that makes monsters of the clouds.
and for this, and only this, and this alone: I love you...

And yet,

because of all of the above; you are hollow and I hate you.
when I tap my subtle toes against your sides, my ear to your breast,
I find only echoes of a heartbeat; no longer screaming.

your stomach has grown fingers and claws, and crawled away,
leaving only an empty hunger that craves to be held.
you are the spaces left behind by vacant facts and sober sanity, my love.

lassitude lingers in your eyes, filling the static wombs of tears.
with hands like drunken outcasts; in coffins of excuses
you bury the stillborn children of conscience, cruelty and creativity.

And,

I would not want to be you
for all the poems
in all the world.