Dead Feelings

The thing is, poetry is about dead feelings.

We try to live them out through words.

We read it again and again hoping it comes alive, again.

About us I have nothing left to say,

I thought we meant something, 

I pictured us somewhere, somehow in the future.

I saw us giving hands, kissing our lips, soflty.

Now I see no more us.

It was it, the look on your face, your discharge, your emptiness,

but my emptiness was there too. 

We can't be halves of an unmatching puzzle.

Riddle me with your insecurity and feed me with your ravenish.

Strike me once again, I said it was over but, come, 

let's try and suffer, but love me in between.