poetry for the poetic: 5

LVIII

<insomniac's diary>

take two of lost love. i wanted to hate you, every ounce of me, as my broken skeleton lay buried in the dead of night to a ghost that kept scratching at my soul. this pitter patter of rain we had created by our tongues, and this coldness left such fatigue. my mind stutters on words that don't fall into sequence and often i find myself borrowing time from all the ticking clocks.