laps around the reservoir.

when you see something so beautiful,

so well crafted, that you release and cry.

my days are full of those miraculous pockets of time-

and during that time i torture myself begging to create rivers to fall down my cheeks. 

robins, children’s laughter, and vanilla ice cream- all damned. 

not processing purity, i portray a villain.

“would”- the reason every part of me is static.

there's no greater vengeance than to enjoy again.

i can't even understand colors, the colors of the pansies. 

that one word stole every ounce of pleasure from me.

haunted i remain, the static still stands.

i would like to hear music again- please.

all of these pockets of time,

in pain and deprivation,

and what i hate most

is that

i live in a world where i create a nostaglisa that exists with you not in it.