she tilts closer to me
she pouts, i can't help but smile
i don't know if she knows how funny she is

a Polaroid picture
faded and creased
i hope she loves me back

sometimes i want to burn things
to see them dance with the fire
two partners, fighting for an infinite second
in the brick fireplace of a temporary being.

then they are gone, turned to ashes
the fire burns itself out.
that dance, so beautiful, so inevitable
only lasted a second
before the dancers had places to be

encore, encore
and get another piece of scrap paper
and light another match.

oh, to be the fire
primitive and swirling.
but no.

i'll just have to watch.

she sits in the bathtub
back to her infinite melancholy
a paperback thriller sitting on the side of the bath.
she reads them to feel something
horror or even a twisted joy.

her mirrors have crayon on them
make me real, more than a doll
she begs at the foot of her bed.

people say she is lost
that's not the problem.
she knows where she is too well
how can you explore
when all you see are finished maps?

she knows who she is
but she doesn't know how she feels

she's a product of her environment
a blank person from blank walls.

there's a difference between loving
and being in love.

i was in love with him.
dancing in the space between our minds
we didn't talk about meaningful things
we were willing fools
until the very end
and even after that.

being in love is being a fool
and throwing yourself into the other person
like jumping off a cliff.

being in love is to dream every day
of kissing them, of holding them finally.

i am not in love anymore.
now i have my friends, my chosen family.
i love them and it is a choice
the best one i have made so far.

mr businessman
with his briefcase full of battered dreams
sometimes he stays up late at night
but not to cry.

now he's an artist
put all his money in a retirement fund
and started his life from scratch

people say he used to be great
but who knows?
maybe he still is.

he doesn't drink anymore
not even as a social activity
it scares him that if he has it one more time
he may lose all semblance of self control.
he's put himself together
but the glue's still drying.

some day,
in a month or a year
an indefinable period of time
his gaping gunshot wounds
will have faded.
covered in scars, he will be the most beautiful person for just an instant.

but what's gone is not forgotten.
sometimes he will trace his fingers over ridges of flesh
and feel the phantom pain of necrosis of the spirit.
he'll be happy -
but not content.

a good businessman
is never content.

mr businessman
walks around with battered dreams in his suitcase
home from his desk job
his closest friends greet him
(a bottle of whiskey and an old guitar)

he wanted to write songs
to make people sing out loud
now he files paperwork
and carefully feeds the things he cares about
through the office paper shredder

he watches birds and wishes he could fly
but mechanical wings have gone the way of his dreams
so he'll settle for just falling

falling asleep, falling alone
falling with no one to catch him

still he sings himself to sleep
moonbeams & moonlight
his voice salty and hot in his throat
like the tears he has swallowed through his life

mr businessman crushed his own dreams
for a penthouse view
and what can i say,
it worked

i see articles
about mothers
whose poems were found
after they died.
in each and every one of these,
their poetry is reportedly amazing
i am always baffled by this
because, objectively,
once a poet has reached a certain level
only their work can go further.
to say it succinctly:
i have seen an amazing poem but not an amazing poet

so is my perspective thrown off?
or is it that those poems have been touched by the special, peculiar glitter
that death brings?