Within
are the silently spinning cogs of his broken mind
his eyes- portals into the decay:
windows through which I witness the destruction that has befallen his beautiful cerebrum

Without
are the quiet trembles of fragile hands
the slackness of the muscles in his jaw
fine lines fast becoming wrinkles in his expressionless forehead

Within
the silent void that stretches between us
are my unanswered questions, my guilt
exposed for all to see for it is mine to flaunt as the corners of my own mind sink into shadow

Without
regard for consolation, compensation
flits away upon my heavy breath that barely
stirs the air like an unfolding orange butterfly freezing in the autumn it’s mistaken for spring

Within
the quiet solitude of the crisp air
that feels as if it could crackle
and break in two or three of five like this void between us- shatter like glass

Without
would be bloody scratches, punctures
from shards of glass blossoming like roses
red on the whites of out cheeks and existing in reverse of the scars I’ve inflicted upon our minds and hearts

Within
the fragile skin over our bones, transparent and
breakable like wax paper and butterfly wings
as our orange butterfly sinks to the ground dead in the midst of a brown and blue September