free writing

I find it difficult to quantify the amount of wide-eyed hope
you cause my subconscious to prance around with.
She dances, fluttering from euphoria, tangled amidst
optimism that you paint on the future. Relax, you said.
There are moments where I admit that I want to apologize
for being a worrywart; the lesser regions of my cerebral
cortex gnaw at the base of my spine on bad nights,
and all I can do is tremble and hold you. Your skin is soft;
the warmth of your cheeks rub up against the nape of my neck.
Daylight will wash over us soon, darling.

My clumsiness seems to astound you occasionally.
You watch me stumble over condolences insincerely,
but I can promise nothing except the most earnest
desire to see you smile. I enjoy running my fingers
over the cracks that break on your cheekbones like dawn,
although I feel like it's been ages since I've seen
the light glimmering through your artificially mature,
sometimes cliche windows to the soul.

Occasionally, I wake up wondering if you're still there.
You exhale roughly and straighten up your back
in your sleep, stretching your spine so that I can tap
into the reservoirs of your disease. I want to run (away)
my tongue all over the abscesses and search vainly
for the cure within the muse of my soul, because
our toxins could write a beautiful self-destruction
worthy of a Graham Greene short story.
Today is a day where I find something tragic
about us written within the confines of a comedy.