You begin to tell me your stories,
Of the dark dreams and thoughts,
And I stare at you with a child-like wonder.
You begin to tell me your stories,
Of the dreams that haunt you, of memories that don't let you be.
And I trace your scars with my fingers.
You tell me about the lost childhood,
Cursing yourself as you continue.
And I place my palm on the scars, trying to cover them and make them all disappear.
You tell me things that remind me of my own demons,
And I wonder how we are both the same,
From the same tree of sorrow, wishing for it to all go away.
You continue to tell me about the past,
As we get engulfed in this smoke.
Ashes around us, from things we are both trying to burn and from this cigarette you hold in your fingers.
You tell me your stories and I
go back to your childhood &
picture the child trying to fight the monsters.
The monsters that never go away,
Lurking under the bed.
I try to hold you, trying to figure out where the broken pieces go.
And you share your silence with me,
& we let everything get lost in this dimly lit room.
p.s.- This is for you. Wherever you are, whenever you read it. I'm here.
