Him

His skin is heavy as it hangs from my heart. 

I feel it pulse and sway when 

my beat stops beating, 

feel it reach for more when I have 

Nothing left. 

The nail varnish I wore is 

scattered across frosty  

book pages that mean 

everything, 

and say nothing, 

the floor is stained black with 

the memory of him, 

His lost zeal for reality. 

He is a man of  

dreams who never 

comes down to see what 

I see, 

what we all see and  

it’s broken, 

squandered in the fleshy pages 

of a hardback life, 

a cushioned pillow and 

the days I can’t call my own. 

The void swallowed him 

like a fly, 

like a hopeless vagabond who  

needed no reconciling. 

I cry because it’s 

further 

from the ugly  

shade that 

subsists when I am 

Placid. 

I fear the daylight, 

labouring away at beautiful 

pages that say 

Nothing. 

He has no face, 

no place in a world 

built for somethings. 

And it hurts every time to think 

of the ways I could have 

Saved him.