It is here
that broken memories find their home.
Divorced from the nests
they have made in our chests,
sinking talons into hearts
and clogging our veins
like the junk from a million Wal-Marts.

The air hangs like flypaper,
catching every breath
like a moment in time.
Every foot falls on crust and grime
and used needles.
The colors are faint
but still bursting with life,
pastel shades of peeled paint.

There's a girl with antelope antlers
and a man with a lobster head,
A lobster made completely
of whole-wheat sliced bread.
There's freaks of every size and shape
abominations of every description
but for a surrealist,
these thoughts are our prescription.

a broken heart
still loves
just like
a broken crayon
still colors

I found myself staring at you
from across the Chemistry room.
I found my mind creating these poems about your eyes,  
about your smile,
about your voice.
You created these poems in my head
like a seed and water create a flower.
I had these flowers blooming like crazy in my head like my hand
held a pen losing its ink with every word I scrawled down.
I planted these flowers into the paper
just as you had done to me.
As I found myself creating these poems in my head
I realized I had no idea how to stop them.
They had a mind of their own, these poems,
they were growing like a wildfire,
just like the flowers you'd embedded into my brain.

It was like the fall signified your leaving.
The leaves parting from the trees like you parted from me.
The temperature dropped like the heat departed from my body when you left.
Like the heat from your body disappeared from the spot next to me in bed.
It was as if when the first leaf of September dropped from the tree
and fluttered to the ground, you evaporated.
The leaves turning from radiant, warm colors,
to a brown, wilted, dead leaf on the wet ground.
Because a leaf cannot live without it's tree, it's source of life.
And you, my darling, were my tree.
When autumn came you let me fall.
You left me there to wilt.
I was no longer radiant and vibrant, I was brown and crumpled.
Everyone stepping on me with their winter boots, laughing and smiling, while all I can hope is that the fall flies by and the spring begins,
Because maybe, just maybe,
you'll return again next spring.