That which is mine

You say the minutes

   mean nothing to you;

That they are merely a crutch for a person afraid to live,

   counting their steps toward

        inevitable death

Aware of time, but never embracing it.

 

You speak of time in a sense of non-existence--

    The way some speak of God

                   or Hope;

of that which, in time, is timeless--

   that which I fear I do not possess.

And, therefore, can never be

                               in your eyes.

 

You talk of crying as a security blanket

  that shields the weak from the harsh realities of broken dreams--

and tell me you grow tiresome of tears.

        Yet, you hold me as my body shudders with sobs

                and I beg you to leave me--

but you don't.

 

And, in our sleep, I feel your body shaking next to mine--

             quietly--

                 secretly--

because I tell you that I can never love you.

   And you couldn't possibly know that I do.

 

My body has grown tired

  from holding poses for you--

as you try to paint me in your likeness

         with colors I never even knew existed.

My head aches and my gut is sore from fighting every night

  over whether or not to fall asleep in your bed.

I'm afraid that in the morning you will be gone.

 

I am always the first to leave.

I always have been.

   But you ate my logic out.  And now you have a piece of me.

 

Please give it back.

   I am lost without it.