Goodnight

The harder I close my eyes, the stronger my sense of sight becomes until this resting state isn't restful at all. You're fading in and out of dismorphic behavior, one by one with your cells blending together so that a kaleidoscope of you is erupting in my frontal lobe. I mean, frontal love. Stretched out like a character from a Tim Burton children's horror porno or mutually mutilated without any recognition that you were ever human at all, I see you clearer now than I ever did before. Beauty lost its sparkle when the rhythms of your pheromones got manufactured into cologne that they save in the men's bathroom, holding it for a secondary mistake. 

Oh so molded and bolded and scolded like a child on the sidewalk, teetering too close to the passing cars. It's not a suicide attempt until you understand death, but just childlike experimentation.

She's probably just experimenting. 

She might just be curious.

Sweetheart? I see you still.  You're not experimenting at all, and your science project failed. It's time for you to pack your little backpack full of expressionless mementos and tie it to a balloon destined for somewhere far away. 

You're older than you know, because age is a feeling since the human race lost its ability to count and retain any sort of self respect when wrinkles become more prominent than smiles. 

It's funny what you see when you close your eyes.