3 a.m. Suicide

the moon has decided to paint over a canvas of mixed-emotional heavens
circles of a divine torture that music cannot come close to soothe
and that vodka and whiskey have promised to.

The embrace that I share with my mistress
is just a step away from falling into a dream I do not wish to have,
because then I will be happy in a world you created just for me,
(a world made with your words, your kiss, your passion,
a world created with our hopes, our dreams, our madness)
and I would have to wake up to a world I was forced to live on,
tortured and reminded each day that passes
that I am left without the deviation in your wicked smile.

How many times have I told you that I miss you?
Maybe just enough times to convice you not to care,
and hence stay right where you are,
let it be amongst angels in heaven or demons in hell.
How many tears must this page take before the ink starts to run?
Maybe just enough to create a river,
so I can sail through it and be lost just so I can again be found
by the dragons that safeguard that loving memory of you and me sharing a life
that I have devotedly grown to despise.


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