Terminally ill

                                                  ( draft still open  )

      I 

 Am not well. 

It does not feel good. 

I am sick and wrought, 

        All over again-

 A Century-old sickness born from You...

    and that time, 

When you would make yourself known, 

        then. 

Do YOU ever cry here? 

      I

Can't find any motivation to get out of bed today, recovering from a headache-

The bad habits of what he brought home

  and the tight wound up feelings 

churning beneath, 

the toil of curdling thoughts, 

Solidifying. 

Perhaps I have always been impatient

  but it has been such a long, 

long, long amount of time...has it not?

I look over on my bedside, 

  The hourglass running down. 

No thing makes sense at all here, 

  In this Wonderland. 

and I am unconcerned with anything that should matter at present, lost in the rabbit hole, 

   Floating down, 

                        Down...

                Down. 

     I feel the pull of you on me, 

     churning in the decisions made over time 

And watching the cement dry around my ankles

Ready to fun free of it, in a panic, 

   Tick, Tick, 

        " I'm Late! I'm Late!"

The affairs of the heart are never right. 

and I am just trying to make sense of it...

Forbidden to even think as far as I have. 

Unconcerned anymore, 

If it means you will greet me. 

Willing to burn the world down 

  if it means you will love me. 

and it is a very honest feeling...however cloaked in the worst of possibilities. 

If you would have me, 

  Then, 

do I indeed break his heart, so that we can restore what once he stole from us? 

It is not like he is innocent in all these long years either, endured.. 

It is unimaginable and vile a thought. 

I am no better to love you this way. 

Treacherous for him. 

But I have remained loyal, haven't I? 

Naked. Worn. Hair curly, messy and tattered. 

I can not share with you my thoughts, 

My love.  I can not hear your voice, and intimate concerns.

I can not rest in your arms and let our embrace tame the destruction of our world engorging the flame 

So that we might clear the field in order to love each other, 

This time around. 

And as I shouldn't, I share my bed with a phantom. 

I share his love for me with a ghost. 

It is unclean. 

Unholy. 

And yet still, 

It is Love. Our love.