(no subject)

[aaronrock]

sometimes i jump off the bridge in my mind or
crawl into a darkened corner. on my better days,
i am a monk; the rest, perhaps a hermit of sorts.

i don't know what to do with my hands, my eyes.
when i'm alone, i shake my head at my nervous habits,
picking apart a leaf or a conversation. you creep up on
me like a painting i've forgotten about. maybe it made me
cry in the middle of a museum or my own room and i want to
drown in the subtle color or brushstroke that got stuck halfway
down my throat. my forehead is always cold or hot and
i'd like to hop the next train to wherever
but your skin is haunting and i begin to think that maybe
if i could write you a poem about worlds being created
i could breathe again.