It was a Friday night.

Warm yellow light, my throat was tight

and she gazed at me with hazel fright

as I read my own words.

 

A clump of words and phrases, 

tumbled outward from my face

but like the lunar phases

she was changing while she heard.

 

I wrote about a pill

that became my sorce of will

that consumed my every fearure 

and became my puppeteer.

 

As I read aloud the shaking 

marks my scabbed up hands were making 

she was silent; she was taking 

in my deepest darkest fears

 

All the while I assumed

that nobody in the room

understood just how unbearable 

it was being alive,

 

living fix to fix to fix

filling up, but feeling empty 

never worried of what could be 

if I upped the dose next time. 

 

but as the poem ended

and again, her hazel gaze

met my eyes, something was mended,

something breaking through the haze

 

for the warm eyes that before 

blended with the yellow light

glistened now with small blue rivers

and I saw the hazel fright.

 

And she touched my shaking hand

though before I couldnt tell

I could finaly understand

why hers was shaking as well.

 

And I held her shaking hand, 

and that night on the drive home

no matter how lonely I am,

I would never be alone.