ade

there’s a certain sadness
which leaves one
at a loss,

stranded upstairs,
in a bed,
in his bed,
in the heart.

like a day no
different to night,
where the birds
dare not sing,
and the winds do
not cease

and there’s a certain love
which leaves one
in agony,

like the slowest,
most pure & unholy 
form of self-harm

to which no knife,
no screw driver,
no vodka can replace

and there’s a certain anger, 
which leaves one 
full of resentment 

and my dear,
can you imagine 
just how sorrowful 
it is to want to—
to need to
kill that thing within.

tonight I am several different 
men, none of who I
know particularly 
well.

I was sat in a
room with her
and she just
wouldn’t speak.

I thought,
‘my dear 
this is unlike you,
we used to be
such good friends
such good company’

‘you used to drive
me crazy, till my
ears bled, you
used to reveal
until my eyes
wept’

‘there was a beauty
deep, down in your despair,
and when you cried
a harmony would
echo from your bones’

‘I had such hopes,
don’t you remember
them - my dear?
when did you let them
go?’

‘pick up your glass,
why you’ve barely
drank a drop—
is that him calling?
it’s unlike you to say no’

‘you aren’t so magnificent 
lately my dear,
your aching is silent,
I can’t find you
anymore, my dear

who will find you?’

‘some of us,
were not meant 
to be,
not meant
to be found’
                      wept only the walls.

when it takes
exactly one 
cigarette, one
man, one 
mug of coffee 
and a tablet 

to cope with
the waking up,
and the breathing,
and the sleeping 
and the eating.