tape my mouth with duct tape
whisper goodnight in my ear
and wonder why I do not respond

a starling made of starlings
vanilla light seeping from the Promethean screen
and for a split second, it all makes sense

words are too small
cramping for this feeling
yet i must share it
<or else how would I know I lived at all?>

people like happy poems . . .
how depressing.

a scream is little
other than a sudden wake
let's all stay asleep

a hopeless romantic
now she's just hopeless.
he was the man (boy, really)
of her dreams

he's not a nightmare, exactly,
it's just that she woke up
and her expectations fell down
to be dashed on the rocks

she's not outright sad
just melancholy
not quite blind,
just an occasional haze

the rose-colored glasses
were knocked off her face
by her own half-asleep arm

shattering, tinkling, singing
a beautiful song of praise and hope
until the clattering glass turns
to a silent, frozen scream

oh why can't she ever be more
than half asleep.
not rested, not stolen away by her dreams
yet not completely here, either
a separate lonely chair
just for her.

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.