Stargazer

I remember a few weeks before this fatal tragedy, when you told me we had to go stargazing this summer. 

My brain works like a machine, and I thought I was right brained when it turns out that I'm actually a f*cking left brained robot. I read your body language and payed no attention to the screams of help and begs for happiness and just a bit of attention behind those absolutely stunning green eyes. 

For years I saw nothing but a pretty face, and thought nothing more. 

But when you finally told me the truth about your eyes, I knew I was looking at the wrong painting the entire time you were describing it to me through the dimples on your cheeks. 

I tried my hardest to listen and comply, but that just isn't in my programming. 

Apparently there was a flaw. apparently I have a listening problem. 

Apparently my mind is too active to make room for love. 

Apparently it takes a suicide attempt and a loss of words due to your hospitalization, for lack of a poetic metaphor, for me to realize that you're the most important thing I've ever neglected. 

I've tried time and time again to silence the screams in my head, to dowse this emotional fire burning in my brain, to stop the inmates in my imagination from banging their damned cups on the sensitive jailbars of my cranium! 

But no matter what I do, the fire just won't go away, because a bullet is not a very good fire extinguisher. 

And tonight, as I sent you my message with no receiver, I explain how beautiful the sunset is, because with your eyes closed on a hospital bed, I'm almost sure that you can't see it. 

As I sat in my chair, watching the sun go down behind the mountains, painting the snow pink and the clouds a deep purple, I wait and pretend that you're under my arm instead of under the knife, and I watched the light fall, and gazed at the stars all alone, feeling the tendons in my chest snapping like boiled spaghetti that was stretched too far. 

And when I'm done, I stand inside my dark sleeping house, and stare out my window in hopes that you'll pull up to yours, and walk to your door. Alive and awake. 

But instead, I sit alone and continue to write shit poetry because I feel the need to express myself to people I only sort of like down in Provo.