(no subject)

[xhurt_for_mex]

he's in one of those moods again.
bare knuckles bloody, making
the cracks in his headboard
deeper with each blow.

he shuts the door
so no one sees him
unsettled, considering
the nature of love
in solitude.

it's getting late, he's got to be
up for another day in
six hours and he knows
that sleeping won't fill the hole
in his side, or center
his imbalance.

he flips through the bare
pages of his notebooks, unmarked;
half-pretending to forget, half
-convinced that he's
doing a good job.

but he still remembers
sticky summer kisses, each
exchange of words past
midnight, (the sound

of shattering static) the way
her eyes said love loudly, when
they screamed, deafening--

he lies motionless on a
sheetless bed, observing
where the ceiling meets
the wall. he debates
writing it down, filling some pages
but eventually concludes that
it isn't worth the ink, and
moving would only cause
the mattress to creak.

he'd pick up the phone
dial her number without
question, tell her that
things are ok,
that he loves her, and
goodnight-
but he isn't sure she'd
untangle her limbs from
stale sheets to pick up
and answer.