I turned back every clock in this stupid house,
but that didn't help. You were still there, with every
second that passed. I realized, now, that I've forgotten

one. The one that takes refuge behind lines of bloodied,
bruised ribs, as well as the one that kills me. Not to mention,
the one that's responsible for my being alive. It doesn't keep

the right time, for it still thinks you're slipping secrets into my drinks
and spreading me across sheets like rose pedals. I turned back every
clock except the one in my chest, and it just won't stop ticking.

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

He held onto his stuffed rabbit and asked
‘what are those lights in the sky’, with wide eyes
and a genuine interest in human nature.

I explained to him that they were stars, and
when he asked what that meant, I said
‘they’re just ***** of gas, light, and hope’

and these vast spheres of gas and light
and hope, govern us. Tyrannize our tiny
existence with their somewhat larger indulgence.

How we worship supernovas and eclipses, how
we wish on things that merely embellish the moon;
that glow. How we loved to watch things, and pretend

that they were of some sort of importance. We could
spend whole nights lying on our backs with lovers
watching still shots of the void. Figments of imagination.

I tried to explain the concept of stars
to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom
why we loved what we did.

And unfortunately, neither could I.

I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if

in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.

I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...

..or sorry, for that matter.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

I have a question, love: Did you, when learning of my absence,
search for me? Did you look right there, in the air,
between the clouds and the sky - find me floating, filling your lungs?
Did you feel me pulsing through your veins, warming your bones

and caressing your spine? Did you look in the dusty corners of rooms
and cracks in trampled sidewalks? Did you ****** the covers and sheets
from your cold, stiff mattress, finding the pea that bothered your pretty
little head? Did you, for a second search for me?*

“Oh, but dear, I didn’t have to take a moment to question the taste
of the air or the warmth of my blood. I did not peak behind corners, nor
over any walls. I did not wonder what restricted me from sleep. For I knew-
you were there; I knew it was you. Tell me, lovely: what’s the point

in asking a question, when the answer I already knew? That all this pain,
and all this great sorrow was merely caused by you."

I forgot your name, in the
process of trying to remember.
It danced and spun on the tip of my tongue, then
fell to the floor, shattering into fragments of blue,
guilt stained glass. You, with
wide eyes and a firm frown, watched and cringed
at the sight of this, and I was left attempting
to remember the name of the girl of my dreams while
she stormed out of my life in those pretty six inch
heels. It wasn’t until you were gone that I remembered
everything, except how to forget you.

These rain drops won't leave me alone. It's not
the clouds that torment me, it's the ******* rain.
The rain drops like to see me miserable, and
the clouds are just their chauffer

I still love the rain, though.
I still love you, though.