i'm still sober.

i counted the days.

one. two. three.

restlessly flaying the syllables you protruded.

the habitually numbered days

turned into weeks.

one. two. three. four.

attempting to restore fervency

is an off kilter pipe dream.

number four.

i sift through the crumbled
ashes of youth
determining where i fell away
and lost the
nectar thoughts
that i once held close like
your simmering oils intertwining with
the kiss of emerald
i feared i had lost all i once
cherished and kneeling in
a room of silver
i revelated into unknowing
depths yearning for your
marble words
and
ruined feathers.
strangled by my undying need
for your sad thoughts and
spilling requiem,
i starve my mind
to relinquish these unsustainable
shackles and manacles,
revolting
through such an age of
enternity fringes.