Evening's over, feel alone.
Cold seeping in, through my bones.
Sunday morning, 10 o'clock, waking up
Heart racing, head hurting, throwing up.
Feeling empty, Monday morning,
how'd it go?
Posting pictures, looking awful, just for show
Still can't help myself, telling everyone -
I love nights like these, honestly, so much fun
Can't wait for the next one.

she rises in the evening,
and the sunset paints her pink.
she shakes off the sleep
that hangs heavily from her eyelids,
and when the orange sky darkens,
she is alive.

the inky blue air shimmers with secrecy.
she smiles for the first time since waking.
how little, and yet how much the dusk hides;
for when the sun surrenders to the moon,
the waking are their truest selves,
set free by the mask of night.

Lately I've been searching for a new home.
Ever since you left nothing feels right.
My childhood home is like a graveyard.
My favorite coffee shop is filled with ghosts.
The passenger side seat of my car
has your fingerprints all over it.
I've been searching for new things
to make me feel whole again,
since everything I used to love has
the remnants of you all over them.
For now I sit on a street corner,
homeless.
Holding a sign that reads,
"searching for something to ignite
the fire in my chest again after my home
with two arms, two legs, and a beating heart
got up and left."

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.