"It's not you..

                          It's me,

Sitting on the shoulders of this tumbling giant, 

                                                                     Trying,

To believe       that the rocks at the

Bottom won't, 

                            rip me apart by the seams.

It is not you, waving coarse words                      which are,

Wondering if you could even hear them, still

Screeching those once-scintilating sayings, which

          Only sit now,  as a       sour taste in the back of your throat. 

It is not you who is wishing, and                     watching,

    The air wash away the wasted          stain of my breath,

                                                                                          Dying

to take another look at the face across

 Which you wrote solely,

                                           Those   sad solilioquies with the air,         ruminating on

Your empty soul, so broken it can

                                                        Only be taken across seas,        on splintering boats

Which can no longer feel the weight of their cargo.  You expect me

                                                                              To row to you,

Until my arms wear into

      thin strings of cotton, which you start to 

Tear by the edges                           apart     in your hands.

 

It's not you, but me,     who is searching through these caves,

Which might collapse,  whilst

            Wobbling on pin-stick legs, trying to

Stand        Up against the tide to pull you free,

Willfully lying to myself,

Trying to brush aside the knowledge that 

                    Still doubts my actions, so forceful in its

Weary assumption that such

Gumption, would not be repeated by the person,   Who 

Only waits for the waves to erase my portrait,      and make it sink

        All that I gave- which was to you

no more than an ibuprofen, to               dissolve

  In your drink.