No, Not Love Anymore

Sometimes I want to paint you on the canvas. Unashamed. Wild. Free. It is not lack of trying, I cannot do that. I just end up gorging you up like some untamed monster. Assault after assault till your thighs bleed in my dreams. Perhaps, that is why I tear up many pages, and there are many more on your side of the bed. I know they are stained, stained with red ink. Crumbs of the life you give me, in crumbs. You reek of alcohol. Your eyes don't look out for me. They are distant to some notorious tune of the dead hour. Okay I would be honest that notoriety makes me jealous. But, I won't deny this mouth of mine, the lips you kissed are lesser barbed wires. They constrict my tongue to utter just an ich too. Each time I give too much and there is nothing left, within me, to say.  Still I don't look out of the window to learn, the sparrow doesn't sing better. I think I have got wings since I saw you. You bring me feathers and you know what today, in this moment of july, these are scattered too. Where? Remember, on your side of the bed. With the crumbs. Won't you ask me, if my cat has given them that same purr? Or maybe, is there any hint for you to discover in my each poetry, every song? I know you would not. It does not matter. Can it get anymore badder? I do not know if it is a word, I do not seek to know. I know you, I know enough. I think I would leave it just like that. Unfinished.