I still write poems about you
the same way
a widow
brings flowers to the grave
each word is tied
to your shadow
led to the slaughterhouse
for muted screams
we only existed
in the gap of time
inside the silence between heartbeats
now our borrowed history
is fading
like the end of a song
like the last line of a poem

it is strange to see
irregular lines scrawled
across the page
in some small way I made them
helped to shape from where they came
then it slowly dawned on me
they could be better than anything
I have ever penned to page

A midnight omelette
Could be a heaven on earth,
Although some eggs might beg to differ.

If the mirrors could speak,
They would go to shrinks,
They would throw themselves on couches,
And they would talk, they would talk, they would talk...