She wrote your name on her paper heart
Swore to hold you close
But you could not see fragility
Under blue skies, rain, or smoke
And just like that she tried to hide
The rip, the tear, the pain
Your gushing river tore her apart
Like papered artwork in the rain.

- c.t.

A single flame rebukes the darkness; I watch it dance.

Why would I deny myself the simple pleasure of your beauty?

Pour out your heart and soul,
and others read and say… so?
That's the way it goes,
when one is a writer.
Agonize over just the right word
and others read right over it.
It's absurd, the life of a writer.
Why do we do it? They ask.
We answer, Why do we breathe?
Oh, to be a writer.

CR Binion

I hear one note
I close my eyes
I hear one beat
I start to smile
I'm not just hearing
I'm also listening
How could such fimiliar words
have such different meanings
I might be percieving the sound
but I am also giving one's attention
Not only the sense of hearing
but the sense of feeling
it hits my core
chills from all of my toes
to the tip of my nose
to the back of my neck
from a shoulder to another
I let out a sound
Just to realize its over


now I feel nothing

I've said goodbye at bus stops
In coffee shops, on planes.
In broken down hotel rooms
and in sudden summer rains.
I've said it without speaking
when I could not find the words.
In parking lots, at funerals
and to the song of birds.
When forced to without meaning it
I've even said it too,
but the hardest thing I'll ever do
is say goodbye to you.