as time goes on--surprise, surprise my dear.
As I try to wean and learn more about him;
its a work in progress, for a spirit like me.
Because in the night, its a certain silence
that I know all too well.
Thinking of nothing is the easiest
lengths to go in show of distress.
And I decide to leave you be--
a mistake, maybe.
Saddens me to see a fake cocky stand
when I have faltered in a battle of self before.
And yet, nothing can still be said.
All but one curious idea:
Nothing is like a blank sheet
--and its spaces.
To where it hold words
that have yet to be found.
To then thinking too much
can fill the page too much
with words we are not meant to love.
Holding a grudge against myself
angered that I, myself, am not one to be well conversed.
Always turning to dust,
and nothing--for once--
may actually be nothing.
I lay each day with him
in that same certain silence,
sometimes in good standing,
and sometimes in a call for help.
Who is it that should be the strong one?
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