i have spent sentences like
cheap trade-offs,
decreasing their worth
in the currency-exchange where your lips meet.
it is not my fault you cannot afford
a single letter.

i have spent time like
hour-hands are suggestions,
as if pride made the minutes move faster
so i pushed it in the drawers of my chest
and threw away the key
pretending my love does not move mountains.
it is not my fault
you cannot stop counting seconds,
it is not my fault you are always waiting,
and i am always watching you get ready to leave.

i have wasted parts of myself,
thrown them entirely into your puzzle
your fix-and-repair
all sad-faced and
taped up with glue and apologies
i have sacrificed my sunlight,
my clouds,
my hurricanes and shifting plates
in an attempt to make you whole.

i have always been ashamed of the destruction,
i know
my love moves mountains,
it is not cruel.
that does not mean it is kind.

i cannot fix you
no matter how much i give,
time, words, sunlight, clouds,
i have given you my breath but
i cannot put air in your lungs.
it is not my fault that
in all of its destructive glory,
my love moves mountains and
you can't even climb
a foothill.

As he slept beside me,
Sharing a bed that was not ours
I traced my fingers across his frame
Gently brushing the skin
Covering the bones
That held him together
So I could remember
How we used to lay
That way.
©

Life is not a cigarette box.
It is not replaceable upon reaching the bud of existence.
It does not come bearing a warning label that tells you that it can destroy you inside,
but rather expects you to find the words in the smoke.
And when you place your fait between your lips,
and ignite it,
life does not allow you to throw it to the ground,
or squish it into an ash tray.
Rather, your fait actually begins to breathe in your smoke instead.
Life is not a cigarette box,
rather a single cigarette.
Handed to you by the faint shadow of yourself,
and given to you by the distant memory of who you once were.