Sleping Patterns.

To my poor, betrayed crook.

You even sleep the way you live.
I hear the deep whirring that escapes your throat,
The same noises a tortured boar makes.
It's respiration's form of
Gluttony.

I wont try to disturb you.
But if I were to slip into your coma
With a knife and upset disposition
Then consider this an accident.

This is for every time you traced crop circles
Surrounding my frown lines.

So, if I pass you off as a nightmare
Don't read into it, short sited monster.
I don't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing
That I let you control me with my eyes closed.

You reek.
It sickens me to nuzzle you now, for you smell like
The vomit of over-indulged bed sheets past.

Where we are now,
I can feel your breath rotting across my forehead,
Scarring my thought patterns with it's attitude.
Every exhale asks me "What are you waiting for?".

Your body has chosen these words for me.

And when I hold you close tonight I will simply be
Trying to check your pulse without leaving prints.