And still, I write...

I have heard them sing tonight
Lovers, in unison.
And we both know -
how true this is,
just as much as your love.
Yes, I keep inventing ruses to hurt myself.

I want to think of you.
Consciously,
yet again, I choose -
to wallow in misery,
the little solace it brings.
Forsaken lovers have weird ways of rejoicing.

I function so normally,
each morning,
they never happen to notice -
the emptiness I nurture,
the hollow left by you.
On long nights, I paint charcoal auroras.

Sigh, one more - eon long
I spend remembering you.

I am the great lover, no?
Aching in memory of you.
Altering not,
loving still,
hating not,
Wishing still.
.
.
.
Ah!
Great lovers are morbidly selfish.

For in wake of my musings,
my disgusting self-pity,
oftimes, my little brother peeps.

Begging warmth, night after night,
from my stone-cold being,
quietly, he once again sleeps.

And still, I write...

Sep 27th, '08.