Ann Cestor lives alone,
No relatives has she,
So it seems
Iron-ic-ally,
That she is a root …
Without a tree!

I do not belong here*
my mind whispers
in repetitive strokes
as my hands falter
and the words tumble
over my broken lips.

The atmosphere is
sticky and stifling,
squeezing all of the pure air
out of my paper bag lungs
in hot pursuit of this
singular weakness
that flickers and expands
inside my ladder chest.

The love of it all
is killing me,
slowly and with meticulous
precision.

The mourning doves
cooing their last regrets,
the poplar trees rattling
their soft lamentations,
the wind caressing
my neck upon a
sun strewn precipice-

all of it has never meant more
than a lonesome swelter
of emotions that press
and spill through the
cracks in my facade.

The flowers that reach
and bend for me
in misty golden dawns,
the endless sea
like molten metal
in the moonlight,
all of it, all of it,
wasted as it flows
through my fingertips

and I dream of floating
face down for
eternity,
where a smile
might mean something
more.

It’s sad that
I remembered everything you once told me;
You’ve been hurt,
been lied to, been cheated,
been abused and neglected.

It’s sad that
I remembered everything you once told me;
I came into your life,
made it better, made you happy,
made it meaningful, made you complete.

It’s sad that
I remembered everything you once told me;
You wouldn’t ever break my heart,
wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t cheat,
wouldn’t abuse me, wouldn’t leave.

It’s sad that
I held on to every word you once told me;

You left me in the end.
You left me in the end.