Little box o light which I clutch so closely to my being.
That’s what you gave to me.
I gave you a picture of a woman you could love.
But she could not love herself and so,
Her face swelled and whitened,
Eyes glazed over, losing sight
Of what had once been poetry.
Now she sees only heavy shadow
Blobs of emotion,
Intricacies overlooked,
Sparks settled and faded.
Dog-eared pages searched,
Late night scribbles.
Bards called upon for inspiration, and upon failing to offer any answers,
Put back into the box of light.
Dimmed, resting.
Fading in my ears.
Moistening eyes I look toward the open window.
I am a bird. I am a bird.

Smooth, white walls.
I want to claim them,
Take brightly coloured pens and scribble my mind
All over them.
I will wrap myself in a blanket of text;
Familiar, dancing figures standing in line.
My little army.
I will bring them spluttering out from some remote cave within me.
Undefined, hazy, scintillating fresh.

But I wanted you to adore me.
Me, adorned with silver
In your mind and in your bed
Yet altogether absent.
Well go on back to your cave,
I won’t wait at the mouth with my embrace.

There’s a sort of romance in my loneliness.
Solitude is loving you.