The Orphan From Pompeii.

"Am I just roses left to wither and decay,
or bones".
Bones to dust to roses to your hands.
Your hands, brittle and so chipped,
broken from the cold world.
So you hang onto every word with splayed fingers,
fearful of the gaps you cannot help but have.
Terrified of who might be slipping through,
of what's already slipped through.
Stop, foot in mouth, foot in desire,
desire, the only shoe that still fits.
And so you walk over top cracked and cobbled streets,
longing for the broken homes you pass but can't remember,
the ones you never really can quite forget.
Yet you never leave this place, same day, same season,
same signs, and seven new reasons not to die.
"I'm trying, I'm trying", you mouth the words,
unable to scream with your mangled fists between bared teeth.
God knows you want to curse society and all its luxuries,
but for you passion's always been a foreign language.
There's to many miles left ahead to get creative,
so all that's left to do is to think to yourself.
And you think all the thoughts you really believe in,
the thoughts you believe no ones ever thought before.
Sometimes you still dream, staying firmly outside the box,
inside the lines of sleep and wakefulness.
You dream of death and hope your only sleeping,
and you dream of a stranger, but d****t he's in love with you.
You love him to, and this doesn't make you happy,
but it cuts its pretty f*****g close.

This goes on almost forever,
sometime later you'll meet a boy.
He tells you he's visiting from out of town,
that he's been looking for a good time.
You tell him about how ya know a spot,
away you go with only the moon to light the way.
He won't hold your failing hands,
you don't offer him your name.
Because you've done this kind of thing before,
and this one even looks like the wind.
Fast, cold, colder still, always pushing you away,
just do it already, you know you need to.
The two of you lock eyes, at least you think so,
for now it doesn't matter your a w***e.
Afterwards, when you swear you felt something more,
he'll turn and leave, just a blue eyed metaphor.
That's when the ground will start to shake,
the air'll gets so hot, rushing from your lungs.
You feel your tongue flick "I could have loved some-",
then everything starts to happen very fast.
Suddenly your relaxed enough to sneak a grated smile,
arching your naked back in ecstasy as the pressure mounts.
You start to moan as the mercury rises,
forgetting you were ever human.
In the final seconds your hands become claws
Talons pierce the side of the marble slab,
where you rest your beautiful head at night.
The urge to breathe never felt so unimportant.

And that's how I found you,
some few hundred years later.
Lifeless and bare, shadowless,
with no looks left to mention.
Though you are eroded,
you are still beautiful.
You were in climax,
even at the climax.
Just a shadow of a shadow,
but now you have a face.
You were just a w***e,
but now you have a story.
One that I will not hear,
from your lips wet with wine.
I do not yet love you,
only the idea of you.
Soon it will be the thought of you,
Obsessed, I'll make room for you in bed.
Expecting you to waltz through the door,
eager to settle down and tell me tales.
Out of luck, defeated, you have broken me.
I watch, center stage in the mirror,
eyes bloodshot above a permanent half smile.
I haven't slept in several days,
waltzing alone, naked in the garden.
My hands caress the you I have created,
I am only just a man, surely you must understand.
Now you manifest yourself in the pale lit night,
making me really wonder, If i was ever even sleeping.