Steadfast

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Is it not enough
that I have the ghost of your touch
lingering on my skin?
That the tips of my fingers still tingle
with the echo of your stubbly cheek,
every time I breathe your name?
That the memory of your hands
still makes me stroke my cheek and
the memory of your eyes are still branded in my soul?
Is it not enough
that your shadow lays beside me
when on Siberian nights I finally
coax myself to sleep?
That your laugh still echoes inside
my walls like Dorothy’s cruel tornado.
I am cursed to feel your presence
in the place I called my haven.
I had let you into paradise,
my cool, tattered paradise.
I had you dreaming of my sheets, and the innocence of my glare –
I took you homeless took you hungry,
Gave you shelter and caresses
Gave you purpose showed you hope
from the chest of my affection.
Is it not enough
that all I wanted was redemption
yet I’m haunted by demons –
your steadfast footsteps.

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Escapisms

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I’ve found too many forms
of escapisms in my lifetime
I’ve discovered that the best thing
that I sometimes know how to do is
run
– occasionally with my head over my shoulder long enough to trip me up and drag me back to the source of my
so called problems.
And so I keep myself running
find solace in alcohol
a wonderland in cigarettes
and a place far, far far away in poison
until
the end of the night
when
I’m curled up
when
the thumping bass’s gone
when
I’m alone again
when
I come to remember that
I can never escape for long enough,
I can never escape far enough,
to get away from myself.