Hate Sleeping AloneEach night
I lay in bed...
Letting my covers
Try to keep me warm
Though they're never
As warm as your arms.
Letting my dreams
Try to soothe me
Into a deathly calm
Though they're never
As calming as your
Letting hundreds of sheep
Try to caress my eyes
To finally close
Though they shall never
In the way your gentle hand
In mine will.
And while the covers may try
They will never fill the place
Where you slept beside me.
My dreams will never
Fill the emptiness left
Without your breathe.
The sheep will never
Lift me away
Like the comfort of knowing
That your near me
And that you
Will be the first thing I see
When I wake
And each night I stay awake
Because without you
I'd rather not sleep.
My kind of love.I want the kind of love that forms colourful wings in my stomach. Wings that fly in circles because they're disorientated from my hearts heavy beating.
I want the kind of love that's so radiant, I can't even bare to look in its direction without closing my eyes first–– it burns brighter than the sun.
A love that scares the fear out of my life, making anything possible again.
A love that regresses two adults back into kids, playing hide and seek with their future.
I want the kind of love that's a Sunday in the middle of the week –– inconvenient.
A kind of love that dances at a funeral –– inappropriate.
Love that's a muse to an artist –– inspiring.
The kind of love that's a .44 magnum revolver in a trunk of BB guns –– authentic.
Love that sparkles in the dark like pearls around the moons neck.
Love that speaks in tongues possessed by the spirit our two souls create.
Love that regenerates like a phoenix, and flies us on it's back
Work of art.Don't wince at my scars, instead use them to find where I am broken, and put your body against the cracks.
Don't let me fall out of myself again, the parts might fit together, but the breaks are never clean.
Sometimes I feel like glass in the middle of a war zone, just the sound of goodbye may destroy me.
I've picked up the pieces before, cut myself with shards of who I was, carefully pasted them together with who I am, hoping no one would notice.
The trouble is the masking tape I used, doesn't seem to mask anymore.
The trouble is I leave tiny bits of myself behind me, just so I can be found.
The trouble is my heart is made of clay and it might just break with one more fall.
Maybe that's the wonder of me, even once i've broken…I can break again.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez