There is silence in understanding and most of it is because of grief choked inability to speak.

I'm in the middle of transcending into the chorus of the song my soul insists on singing to me in the middle of the night,
My fingertips dry and my brain runs out of ink
my blood runs out of liquid  hate
My subconscious grows tired of enduring my lust and I grow weary of longing for death
I cannot write like I used to
The words on the page shudder and gasp

breathing their last

I wake up clothed in sweat and dreams. The enchantment of the illusion you were, baby.
It was beautiful because it wasn't real
I remember with vivid detail what I shouldn't dwell on
I breathe in the perspiration of your memories , I have
tried unwinding this track; my brain
was not meant for reclining 
And you were not meant to be forgotten
Atleast not by me and I am rapidly becoming a patchwork of crusty memories salted with tears that are too old to be eaten and to heartbreaking to be remembered by me, at this night 2 am  alone.
I want you to know that I waited the twentieth anniversary of the day I was born going against my principles and resigning to heartbreak when I resolved to wait till the next 12 o clock for the person who never cared.
I want her naked heart winding around the songs my listless soul has sung for her I want her
to wake up to a gaping void where I used to be and above everything I want her to regret letting go of me
And above everything and that I want to not miss her like I still love her.