Dipped under the current
smoothed pebbles mud-slide
down the creak's entryway
into the lake.
Depositing into the soil
only to be tussled about by our waves.
We swim vigorously
reaching for stability
breathing deeply,
accepting black dirt
filling our mouth
and claiming our lungs.
Striking against my body
was a warrior in pain.
As if healing only meant
pushing others
far away.
Floating down the stream
of confounding affection,
tree branches, and silt
barricade the movement
of my recollection,
of the pebble to the lake,
how far we've swum without
claiming our state.
Looking the other way,
we allowed it.
Further and further out,
knowing we could only swim so far,
we kept our hearts under t
                                               h
                                                 e
                                                   surface.
And our thoughts stranded at bay.

A little bit tighter
I squeeze.
Bodies don't always remain
in hugging forms.
Heartbeats
sound off
in repetitive
thuds,
And I think to myself,
we are mere.
Trying to piece together,
but sometimes we do not fit.
We forget
where the last piece goes.
It is only when the silence
cascades down upon me,
that I know this is the period to his
end.
I'm dying for movement,
living in the moment,
that I realize the in between.
Am I alive or just living?
Is this death or is this dying?
Gray clouds interrupt the sun,
people pass by,
doing what they know,
while we sit and wallow,
remembering the casual,
the nonsense.
And I dismiss the gossip
of his life,
slowly being lowering into the ground.

Burning wood from winter’s past
drifts through open windows
welcoming new smells and scents
marked down by priceless
conversation
breathing in smoldering memories
from different night skies.
Shadow’s steal the light
gleaming from eyes
bought by smiles
simply wanting to be seen
dancing on wet lips
dipped in pools
of overcharged beer
And free
Free
Free
Desire.
But lust costs
the night
and the morning
is the bill you hid
under moist pillow sheets
filled with tangled hair
smelling like the day
Before
shampoo and routine.
Possession is
the ultimate attainment
of will.

When I  cannot feel anything,
I drink.
One casual sip
Two social drinks
Three stranger shots
Four misperceived "crazy" phone calls
and
Five lonely cigarettes in front of the bar.
I restrain myself
for weeks on end
and
sometimes even the weekend
But feeling feels so great.
It feels like breathing but without effort.
In the beginning, tomorrow's worry lays down the tile,
in the middle, the liquor builds the protective walls
by the end, the roof is blown off and the stars are my friends.
When the sun pokes through the blinds
my house crumbles.
Commencing the search for a possible plot of land
something sturdy, something stable
or something like dirt, to bury myself under.

Depression can lead
and most will follow
into the arms of a ghost.
a replacement for love,
not regained or revived
just  a shadow subsiding
but the ghost knows
to trap their breathers
from exiting the body
they  must wrap themselves
tightly
around wounds and scars
to make us feel
safe
secure
close
to their needs, their desires
their sinking shadows
never revealing their
intentions laid
hollow under bed sheets,
whiskey breath
from a shadow to a ghost
trying our hardest to cling
to anything real without feeling
like a parasite without a host,
we are just masquerades
people
haunting other lover’s
Ghosts.

8 a.m. pill one
to calm the nerves
to calm the thoughts
to drain my senses
to be at ease.

12 p.m. pill two
to converse without having
to feel too much
to remain focused
to avoid the apprehension

5 p.m. pill three
to feel normal without taking
too much away
to notice when my personality is
too afraid of itself.

I feel,
like a sad song looping,
it is without lyrics
that I can finally hear
my voice
raise above
the snare drum of another's
beat
banging
banter
violent
violins
repetitive mood swings
cheap performances
Add
a
slow
subtracting
strum
of the guitar
too single
out
in the crowd  
with a crescendo only as
powerful
as the diminuendo
would have been
if only
the record wouldn't have skipped.

Have you eaten
yourself
yet
the conscience today
will eat you
tomorrow.