I can make love out of nothing.
Anything.
Weave it from straws
Cut and paste
With breadcrumbs.
I can paper mache
all the lies you told me.
I can make love out of nothing
and turn it into my next thing
for the time being.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 7:29 PM UTC
As we grow up,
we become less afraid
of being haunted
and more afraid
of being heart broken.
©
May 3, 2023
May 3, 2023 at 11:05 PM UTC
On scraps of paper
strewn about the house,
I catch a glimpse of your handwriting
and it resurrects you from the dead.
Amongst the living,
I can hear your whistle
as it echos in the hall
and I remember how I thought that,
'one day, you would make a good dad'.
Amongst the living,
I forget for a moment
that you’re thirsty
for my blood.
and that dust now gathers
in the spaces
where the blood used to flow.
Amongst the living,
I forget for a moment
that you’re haunting me.
That you’re still here
but I can’t speak to you.
That your corpse still lies
in the next room
Still.
Tv blaring,
The smell lingers
and it’s getting bad.
my phone lights up with your name
and I jump.
Amongst the living,
I remember
that you’re only broken.
I can see your smile
in my mind’s eye,
Your freckles
and how I used to count them.
I wonder now
how much time I’ve spent
staring at your face
and how I knew our baby
would have those eyes too.
primal, astral, ancestral,
blue.
I loved you once
and for a moment,
I remember.
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 9:37 PM UTC
There was a time when I
Was so in love with
The sound of your voice
That I could not hear
What you said.
©
Nov 7, 2022
Nov 7, 2022 at 11:47 AM UTC
Blue lights beaming
Red eyes gleaming
Forbidden obsession
Haunting and dreaming
The longing for freedom
The feeling on my tongue
Twisting and writhing
Scattered and fighting
The memories biting
You struck me like lightning.
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 11:18 AM UTC
This beautiful life will never be perfect
But that is where the true beauty lies
Within the cracks and crevices
Where the light creeps in
To wash over you
You laugh as it briefly blinds you
Tears roll down your cheeks
And you remember what it’s like to feel alive.
Oct 20, 2021
Oct 20, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC
Skin cells
Under fingernails
To keep you with me
When I go.
©
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 10:21 AM UTC
On my pillow in broken English
And black ink.
A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window.
The clothes outside dangle
Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.
This city has its own sun
That beats down hard
Against the pavement.
Hearts beating hard
against the pavement
Of our souls and ribs.
If Fitzgerald was right
Then“they slipped briskly
into an intimacy
from which they never
recovered.”
Slipped and
fell.
Scars stain our hearts
And knees burn
Like the sun beats down
On the pavement
Of our memories.
But then again,
Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-
BOLD lover-
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter.”
Like you in my sweater.
Ode in a Spanish email
Plays on repeat,
Trapped in my head.
It’s that song that keeps be writing
About you
In this little book
Trapped in this little book
Like the etchings Keats admired
Trapped in the moment before
Their first kiss.
Forever trapped,
Lingering in their longing.
I’ll lick the wounds
Of paper cuts
From quickly turned pages
The sour blood of this longing
Tormented by time
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter”
Like a nagging child
Taunting-
Thumbs in ears,
Tongue out.
I wish my skin was sewn together
With the threads of that sweater
So you could wear me
Again
and
again.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
if it wasn't your soul...
or the flawless symmetry of your face,
or even that stainless yet smokey smile
then it was the statue that they built of you
in the city
and how even the birds knew your name.
between laughter-like sounds,
i can still hear them calling you.
you made your mark.
not on my heart
but on the other
side
in an unexpected space
on my rib cage
a tiny "xo"
marks my skin forever
in black ink.
©
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
Secrets can be silent.
But most often they are whispered
Surrounded by cup-shaped palms
Transported from trembling mouth
To eager ears
Sometimes they are muttered
Throughout staggering sleep
Unbeknownst to the speaker,
Sounded out by partly incoherent coos
And deciphered by insomniacs
Sometimes they are slurred
by drunken tongues and spilled
Like a pint across the bar.
The glass shatters on the floor.
Left dangerously displayed
Until swept up and forgotten in the morning
Sometimes they are written
Soberly on a stark page
The ink courses through your veins
The pen carves the way
And you’re here.
©
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC