PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He sat idly by his bedside. Nursing a cold drink and a hurt liver. It was an easy choice, either his heart or his liver. His stomach was an innocent bystander. In the dim-lit room his hand stumbled towards the box of memories he kept on the shelf. Movie stubs, train tickets, love letters, photos; he knew he had to stop living inside this box. This nightly waltz with ghosts and only a garbage can beside him was wearing on him. The phone broke the silence, praying for a miracle or a tragedy, he steadied his spinning eyes and saw it was a text message. "You aren't the same. I never see an honest smile anymore." Neither do I.

Sleep awaits me, she never minds that I'm spinning or with another on my mind. She kisses me with dry lips and whispers harsh truths as she carries me off.

"You smile now, but it's not real and I'm ok with that. I will be gone when you wake and you will be alone. You'll be miserable and fake, you'll smile and act your part as perfectly as you can. You'll hate everyone you talk to, nothing will fit. But I'll be here for you tomorrow, and the next day, until you meet my cousin, she's gentler than I."

She promises nothing, and I love her for that.