You told me,
don’t let go,
even when,
you’re dead.
Then you,
unlocked,
our fingers,
like taking,
one last breath.
You’re not dead,
just a reflection,
in a smudged mirror,
cracked far beyond,
repair.
I won’t let go,
but not because,
you told me so.
I’ll turn my,
back to the,
past.
In the sky,
look for me,
this time.
I’m the one,
holding on,
to the clouds.

It’s the smell of cigarettes,
too early in the morning.
When you choke on your own spit,
and snort while you laugh.
It’s the carbonated drink,
in the old pillsbury dough boy cup.
The way the sun shines,
between white curtains,
that are almost translucent.
It’s saying the word,
“****!”,
when your lighter doesn’t work.
It’s the red carpet on the stairs,
and the way they creak,
when you haven’t quite mastered them.
It’s making mud pies,
in the puddle of your driveway,
every time it pours.
When you hit the wrong light switch,
though it’s been more than a few years
It’s the sound of the breaks,
when the bus stops in the morning,
and you can barely roll out of bed.
The sweet smell of dandelions,
before your dad mows them.
It’s dyeing your hair,
and staining your friend’s bathroom sink.
It’s losing your bra in a glovebox,
and never finding it again.
It’s learning how to live,
before you lose your chance.

When you,
feel alone,
and can’t,
seem,
to stay,
afloat.
Read me,
when you,
seem so,
down,
you can,
only,
go up.
Read me,
when you,
are unable,
to breathe,
the words,
seem lost,
in between,
your teeth.
Read me,
when you,
can’t seem,
to read,
and the words,
are just,
gibberish,
on the blinking,
screen.
Read me,
when you,
feel as if,
you need,
to be,
read.

She’s made of,
stardust,
and dances,
on the surface,
of the,
moon.
She breathes,
the scent,
of roses,
with a hint,
of cigarettes,
and black cherry,
incense.
She intoxicates,
the room,
with her,
presence,
as she twirls,
and spins,
the world,
does too.

Her eyes,
follow you,
across the crowd.
And you,
your curiosity,
can’t help it.
She blushes,
turns away,
didn’t see,
the glint,
in your own.
Is this,
the start,
of a cliché,
garbage,
romance?
Big brown eyes,
can only see,
what the daytime,
can’t.
Girl’s a daydreamer,
in the search,
of a night owl,
dance.

I keep her,
in a jar,
tight lipped,
and sealed,
with holes,
big enough,
for air.
She screams,
muffled,
by her own,
containment.
If she,
cries,
she might,
drown,
in her own,
confinement.
No one,
is aware,
of my little,
experiment.
It hurts,
me,
more than,
her,
to witness,
entrapment.
My heart,
shatters,
at the,
predicament.
But I can’t,
speak,
I lost,
the words,
and the pen,
to write them.

I take,
scissors,
to my,
tongue.
Only then,
I won’t,
have to,
listen,
to myself,
drone.
I’ll snap,
my fingers,
at the knuckles,
puncture,
eardrums,
still,
I won’t,
shut up.