I've had grit in my eyes
for so long.
I've had sleep stuck in my
eyelashes for so long,
refusing to sink and rest.
This is the kind of grit that I cannot wipe away
not the kind of tired I can sleep away.
I've so tired for so long.
When will it go away?
It will go away, right?

play me an air
   a bluebird lament
something meant for the breathing
  to remember

  all i want to hear
is a soft melody
  sad as the winter
still on the wind

     let your bow waltz
on the strings of my heart
     let the sound
  of your fiddle
set sail

play me an air
   like the bluebird did
     while i dance
  with the snow
in my hair.

You untangle our limbs,
Climb groggily out of my bed.
Redress, tell me not to get up, to salvage a few last hours of rest. Quick kiss, then you slip out into the limbo of the wee hours of the night and the crack of dawn.
Lonely, I instinctively roll to invade the side of my bed you claim as yours,
Thinking if I wrap myself in your sent before it fades I won't feel so alone.
But somehow you never seem to leave a trace.
It's like you were never here.
So I remain lonely.

trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path

I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath

The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth

Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth

And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still

Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill

He never met her
He didn't take the call
They never crossed eyes
They didn't have lunch
They never touched
They didn't rush
She had been honest
He hadn't been so stupid
No one knocked on the door
The truth never came out
He made a different choice.

I write this letter to my ******
chaste poisonous version
wondering
if kissing is
confused
with love

I drop to my knees revising
poetically describing
somewhere
above me
transfused
in lust

It wasn't the way she walked or the way she spoke.

It wasn't even the way she was so distant, mysterious, perplexing, an everlasting enigma. It wasn't the way she could never quite articulate the distance from her body or the distance from everyone else.

It wasn't the way she didn't want to be kissed and only wanted *** because it was rough and made her feel something. It wasn't the way she loved ****** art, the way it looked at a ****** scene.

It wasn't the way she could smile. Intense. Everything she did was all or nothing, everything was the intensity of one extreme or the other. The only conception of "in-between " she had, was love.

It was the way she walked away, leaving behind a massacre of broken hearts.

*(you never had me at "hello", but god, what an impression of "goodbye")