the days we never wait for

these are melancholic times,
wrapped in dried tears and torn laughter;
a sincere smile, a beautiful stagnancy,
like diamond drops on cracked windows
after rain, heat rising from beneath earth,
the aftermath of a stretch broken,
lingering over like a constant hangover.

my mind, it ripples like stoned water,
musing on how perceptions shift with
waves of emotions, but never time.
my eyes are tired, the blackouts blazing past
the shine of my light,
greying everything in sight.

a parquet soul, linear but easily scarred,
i sit in the centre of all that touches me,
a mural of my memories,
and i watch from afar,
when you touch me from the inside
because our happiness is sometimes worth
standing back for to admire;
i believe that much that it won't just
wilt and fade away.

this is the beautiful stagnancy resting on me
altered and obscure,
and i get scared sometimes,
like a sleeping child in reach of colourful dreams
because everything else is so
goddamn monochromatic.

i watch our struggles through the best of times
from afar, counting back fourhundredandthirtyseven days ago, now
fourhundredandthirtyseven days on, feeling as tested as the twelve cuts on my hands.

carry me with the strength left in you
for i cannot carry the weight of our entirety,
but i will carry yours, and set mine aside
for you,
because i trust in you to believe, too.

this is an uneventful feeling,
what twenty eight days can do to us,
with a string of bad sleep, bad health, bad timing.
bad thoughts.

i can sometimes taste the fear
at the back of my mouth, dry and
uncouth, teaching me familiarities
of the fallen like a second-timer.

the things i gather start to ache
and stain the hoards of happiness
i bring in baggage, so tried and pushed to the limit.

the shadows in the day have begun to shadow me
like mirror image. i am sad,
mind as blank as the road i stare down,
forfeiting all thought, raging a war that is so
sickeningly and obviously self-inflicted.

i look into your eyes,
and see myself, worn out and stripped down,
knowing i will never see
the better version like you do, because you
make me feel stronger than i really am,
even through the harshest gush of unwelcoming friction.

these are melancholic times, like a mother's weep
and my shaking hands.

tell me,
will it only lift up from here?