All of Me

I can't understand
how all
of me
is not enough,
and yet it makes
competely good sense.

I must not be
what you wanted
or needed,
and yet I don't feel
that way
at all
about you.

I'm so very happy,
so very pleased,
so totally elated
that there is not
a single elemental fiber
within me
that is not excited
by the prospect
of being
within the same universe
as someone
so untterably wonderful
and loving
and indistinquishable
from perfection
that I fail to see
the reason
to look
into the sky at night
and have not seen a sunrise
or a sunset
for being
too damn busy
writing my heart out
every day
in my trying
to explain
how deeply
I have given you
all that I have,
my most inner-self
and my last shred
of sanity.

You've driven me crazy
and I've hung my feet
out the window
and leaned over
in the seat
and gone down on you
on the freeway of life,
and lapped up every syllable
with the base
of my skull,
and here is where
we have gotten to,
silence and a broken moon.

I'm crushed and hurting,
and injured,
and it's 3:16 AM
and I am still writing
like it is going
to fucking make
a difference.  

I don't give a damn
about fairness.  

But I really missed
those sunsets.  

And now I will never
get them back.

runningturtle87