I write about abandoned homes,
and forgotten souls, and memories
that creep in the darkest corners of my mind;

I write about loneliness,
and broken promises,
and words carved on my skin,

I write about the bloodstains on the snow,
and the remains of a car crash,
and how the wind hums a sad song

I write about the wolf
who cries at night,
howling for the moon’s response,

I write about shattered windows,
about empty halls,
and places with the stench of alcohol and regret

I write about cracks on the walls
and shadows that scare
the hell out of people,

I write about how that boy’s father died,
how his mother left,
and how that girl took her own life.

You see, I only write about tragedies;

don’t make me write about you.

There will come a time when the night air
won’t send chills down my spine
for it will no longer whisper your name.

I will stop telling stories about you,
for the moon has grew tired of hearing them
and weariness is an awful thing to feel.

The stars would appear
brighter than your eyes,
and I would hear lullabies again.

The winds would be warm,
the seas won’t crash waves,
and I will no longer drown.

I know the contours of your face
just like the streets of my hometown
          you'd squint your eyes
                 when laughing
     at the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery
               on frigid Friday nights
frosted glasses, fogging breaths
and laughs caught up
               in tightening chests.
Kendrick Park can keep its towering trees
                                   and midnight charms
if I can keep your laughter with me
                       when I sail for newer shores

Something in familiar signs,
          buzzing blackened Bighorn skies,
keeps us just above the water line--
          afloat for one more night.

Sheridan Iron Works
Red, rigid lettering a raised, distant hand
Watch it wave from on the hill
above the Kendrick boardwalk,
soak December in our smiles
choking back our April cries.

Snake's head yawning
          from the I-90 exit
slithers down Coffeen and tails
          our icy footsteps
     Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
Shake this town to its bones
with our Thurmond Street jokes
and our glowing Gould Street hearts.
I hope
          this is enough
          to buoy our ***** up
          against the weighty ballast
          of this tiny, yawning town.

Settlers of Catan
played on a windy Wednesday night
over another drowning round
of clinking Wagon Box pints.

The contours of your face,
icy streets of our hometown,
our squinting, gasping laughter
on the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery.
               Frigid Friday nights.
Fogged up glasses. Frosting breaths
and laughing, clutching tightening chests.
               This freezing town
               will test your mettle.
               Settle up and bring your friends.

It wasn't a mistake,
pushing you away.
My hands worked for me
As my eyes watched my fingers
Let go.

It wasn't a mistake,
running away.
My mind continued
to use as much force as I could
into my muscles to distance myself from you.

It wasn't a mistake,
the way I felt.
With a heart of broken fiber
And with hands of pressured veins,
I found the will to push you away.

It wasn't a mistake.

From passioned flames, a love is born
Of hopes and dreams and trust,
And when it dies, where does one mourn
When love returns to dust?

For death is death and loss is loss
And somewhere in between,
The death of love will bear no cross
And no grave to be seen

No upturned soil, no marble stone,
No polished box of pine;
No slow procession through the town,
No solemn church-bell chimes

All lovers need a place to cry,
To lay a solemn wreath;
Somewhere to say a last goodbye,
To overcome their grief