the pages ran out

I wish I didn't love to dance so much
with the bees and the birds
because the bees
as beautiful and sweet as honey
will sting you
and in the end
remain only loyal to someone else
who they were born to love--
their damned queen.

I wish I didn't love to dance so much
the with birds and the bees--
the birds, they leave me
high into the ocean above
to a place I only wish I could go,
a place I can never reach
and I'd drown--
at least then something would fill me
and that's better than suffocating here
gasping for oxygen only one mouth can provide.

But it's just a dream to go there,
and we all know that dreams are only for god.
The best I can do is hope that a nightmare will dream of me
and maybe then I'll have a real pounding heart
instead of a having my heart pounded
until what's left is just the dust that's blown off
of memories that never became.
Memories that were just so raw and beautiful
that life couldn't allow them.
Alas, that's a dream,
and the only thing that's real is
how I'm haunted by the memories that are,
that were,
so painful, so cute, sometimes both
like seeing your smile
but knowing I can't have it.

I wish when the weather was like ice,
the wind wouldn't blow me,
because I don't want that when it's cold
I would only ask for that in the heat
but that's when it does
that's when it turns me to an icicle.
It's never what I wanted
and I am powerless to stop it
as it forces itself on me
the same way that sweat seeps from my bones
like I'm in hell
when I am away from you.

I wish you'd let me love you
with the tenacity of the words
that escape my lips
after a night of drinking
because really I'm not drunk,
I'm just drunk on you.
And liquor is all that makes it past my tongue;
like a starved tiger or man
I'm fueled by pain and desperation
but unlike a beast,
I know I have no reason to hunt
because I know the only thing that can fill me is you
and I can only hope that my empty stomach and hunger pangs
will one day overcome my empty heart and love pains.

I wish I would have written you down
before I met you.
Each day I ask my pen why,
of all the stories it's built,
it missed you.
And I begin to wonder
if the pages have been laughing at me
this whole time.
And I've attached to you
the way ink attaches to paper,
without even knowing I had--
my feelings like words to a poem,
appearing one by one until
before I knew it
something beautiful and unstoppable had become.

But then the pages ran out,
and I wrote in ever white space I could find
only to find that there wasn't enough space
to finish the