My points aren’t touching ground.
Plucked up by a spine
Holding my pages together
When the library is going up in smoke
Paper doesn’t need to breathe
It just needs to be the channel
The background of the universe
Bleeding itself into reality

Denial of the obvious

I'm just sad today and when it stops raining then I can get a fresh look at this world and see a not so blurry outlook that melds all the colors into grey

Anger at your brain matter

Why wasn't I born into the world right side up, we joked about how difficult I was but is it really a joke when 18 years later I'm wailing out for the same breath of air that I was born needing

Bargaining with the disorders

I have symptoms of Anxiety Disorders but I could also be schizophrenic so maybe we can strike a golden medium of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder so at least then I can create an insane system of disorderly organization.

Depression

How often can you feel sad before you grow desolate and the drear wears away at the valleys on your face and pins you down into a final posture of the broken

Acceptance

I'll Let You know

To tell someone you love them,
You must first gather the words.
You must search through the weeds in your brain,
Until you find just a few flowers,
That are the right colors to fit your sentiments.
Once you have plucked the love stained roses,
You must shave off the thorns that remain attached,
Standing as barriers between your words,
And the soft flesh of their ears.
By the time you have arranged this bouquet of a phrase,
Into and order that is lovely enough to give,
You will be forced to notice that you are bleeding.
And now, you might turn around to search for a bandage,
Realizing that you have given yourself all the care that you can.
Now, you will fear that the blood on your flowers has poisoned them,
And made them unworthy of offering.
But before you have time to realize,
Your heart has taken control in an attempt to keep pumping,
And spatter the floral crime scene into midair.
You will sit and stare at the evidence of your frailty,
When you see a garden blossoming before you.
And the petals will fall from their lips, as they open their mouths
To swallow the words you have bestowed upon them.
And the next time their mouth opens,
Out will pour violets that are colored with bruises.
You will taste the richness of purple as the scent of springtime shows you
The seeds of your words growing into a world
That was well worth the Briar ******.
Somehow, you will find in your garden,
Lilies and Sunflowers,
Tulips and Hydrangeas,
And some you had no way of knowing.
And then you will realize,
That you alone could make Roses,
And they alone, Violets,
But as your stems intertwined,
You made something that goes beyond
Gardens
Or Forests.
You created a season that
Goes beyond Springtime.
Your meager rosebloods
Have flowered into
A New world,
The only world,
Where the harvest is fuller with every kiss,
And sweeter with every caress.
This world will call for care,
And be in need of upkeep,
But you will always find more seeds to plant,
And more room to grow.
Because although this world has
Been watered with Blood
and Planted with bruises,
It will grow far beyond damage,
and fill you with the spirit of the very first rose,
And remind you,
What each petal meant.

Summer time comes and it's time for a swim,
Dipping my toe gingerly in
When your laugh yanks me off my solid ground.
"Stay in the shallow end," I tell myself, remembering our last trip to the pool.
"Dare not to breathe when he pulls you under,
tasting so much like air as he pulls you close,"
Treading water to stay afloat,
Remembering all that lay at your floor,
A Glimmering Treasure Trove
That will too easily become a home.
Surely, I'll get swimmer's heart,
An achey ringing,
In the center of my chest,
The antidote, found in the eyes of
One who could drain the pool
Without Notice.

Life tricks you into thinking it's beautiful

I stare at you and feel the empty air
begging to be filled with
the admirations festering in my lungs

And as thoughts form flavor on
my lips,
I choke them back and **** them
with the smoky cancer

I exhale in a thick white stream
and hope that it could be
enough of a
screen to hide my eyes
and the hole I'm boring
into your face.

I pray that if you
breathe it in,
you can taste the
honeyed intentions

I fill space with common talk
that distracts from the reality in
which real feelings burn quickly
and leave empty an air that you
ignore.

I swallow it like absynthe
as my jaw clenches with
the weight of my masochistic heart.

What's sad is that I've lived a million different lives in my head
a million lives that all included us

And the one life I have to live exists independently of any remnant of we.

I started smoking when you left me
Swore I would stop when it stopped hurting
2 Years Later,
I inhale
as I realize the only thing that stopped hurting
is the burn in my lungs.

I feel it's only right to start this book with you.
Why not start another chapter as I start my days?
With daydreams of you
With well wishes for your thoughts
With high hopes for your days path
With congratulations arising another day and continuing as yourself
You are not only in my every thought, every word, every breath.
You're in my every cell, every atom.
My makeup is of your soul.
What is the difference between obsession and love?
We always joke that I'm crazy but
I'm insanely painfully otherworldly in love with every part of who you are I yearn to know all of the you’s that have ever existed:
I want to see your face when you first fell in love.
I want to hear your voice from the first grade.
I want to feel your last tear the one I never got to see.
I need to know you, need to feel you your soul in mine.
I could write forever and it will never be enough to show you what my world has become.
But that will not stop me from trying.
If you want to know my world:
Feel your pulse
If you want to live here
Finger through your ribs.
If you want to feel my world,
Feel your heartbeat.
My world exists
In the pit of your irises.
My world
Follows the path of your veins.
My world changes seasons
When you lose your breath.
My world comes into focus and clarity as you draw near.
I live in the creases of your laugh lines
I inhabit the sunshine that lay on your shoulders
Your lips are lifegiving
Your voice caretaking
I’ve crossed the threshold
And while I know it's too soon to ask for a key,
I'm finding you leaving the door unlocked.
I can't sense your smell anymore and
I only know that it's nostalgic in ways
Only Home Can Be.

This home is not mine to claim
But this world is the one in which I live
Perhaps not mine, but still perhaps home.

This Year
When your tear-filled eyes
are looking for
someone to fall in love with,

Make sure you look in the mirror.

I wonder if when Thomas Jefferson scrawled out the Declaration he could see the world that I have come to know.

I wonder if he would understand the nation that would blossom from under his inflammatory words.

Would he know that the world would never be so simple as black and white if only because a racial lawsuit might come from it?

Would he see the world burn up in a digital fire that no nostalgia would ever be able to quench?

Would he know the society that would simultaneously spew rantings of "You're special" and "You are never going to be right enough to live here"?

How about that war that taught the people that it's okay to hate those who fight so that you can love another day?

Or even the world that has severed so deeply within its own walls that you can only hold on to you hearts and hope that might not be severed too?

I wonder what this man could have been declaring so seriously that he would send men to war for it, just to have the papers he and his dear friends were writing on be the shield that politicians might use to prevent their fallout.

Freedom is not objective. And Subjectively speaking, this freedom we've been given comes with about ten thousand terms and conditions that none of us are going to read anyway because this is Amurica and we don't do that here.

I just don’t know how to be alone.
All I find comfort in seems to be that too clear liquid
that smells
too much like rubbing alcohol,
but tastes
like relief in a bottle.
It burns down my throat
but it feels like a heaven
I didn’t have to die to get to.
It’s peace in a place of chaos.
A pool in the midst of summer’s fire.

I am at the edge of this cliff.
Staring down at what could be my death
for certain
if I am to jump.
I stare down at the river
following the chromium streams
meeting my eyes with your own.
Seeing your smiling face.
Eyes sparkling bright.
Smiling all the way to your kind eyes.
Waving your strong hands.
Calling me forth to you.

I Swallow Deep.
Palms Sweaty.
Step Back.
Bite my tongue.
Squeeze my eyes closed.
Shut tight.
All I can see is you.
Your friendly smile.
Your strong arms.

And I leap.
Leap Hard.
Leap Strong.

And I fall.

I can feel the wind whipping through my hair.
Past my Ears.
All around me.
Swallowing me up.
Screaming in my ears.
Making me ever so aware.
Of My Mortality.
My Fragile Heart..

The wind whips faster.
My Heart Beats Louder.

I'm Spinning.
Turning.
Flailing.
Like a ragdoll
Thrashing through the wind.
At the elements' mercy.
Pushing and Pulling.
Shoving and Tugging.
Throughout the air.
But all I can do.
Is Squeeze my eyes tighter.
Breathe a little deeper.
Think of your smile.
Your Sanctuary Arms.

And before I can understand what has happened
I've plunged deep.
I finally open my eyes.
Peering all around.
Where I am.
Where I've broken my fall.

Am I gone?
No longer with the living soulds.
Why?
Why do I feel stifled and suffocated?
I look around.
I stop at light.
I push myself towards it.
Unsure of how I'm moving
or Even what direction I'm migrating towards.
But, nonetheless, moving.
To the Light.
To the Warmth.
Just as I don't know if my fragile being could stand it anymore.
I break the surface.

I breathe deep.
I'm alive.
I'm breathing.

But you.
You are no where to be found.
I silently scream your name.
Searching.
Peering around.
I search and search.
Shaking.
Quivering.
Fearing what reality has brought to me.

I scream and yell.
Searching still.
All Day.
All Night.
Til my fight is gone.
My search ceases.
Grief sets in.
The heart breaks.
And I am alone.

So, I sit down in the quietest meadow.
And weep.
Then, the weeping ceases.
The screams begin again.
Anger and Rage Now.
Then, the screams, too, go silent.

And I lie down and
Stare at the sky.
Looking at the stars.
Listening to the water's whisper.
Feeling the silken grass against my back.

Breathing.
Quivering.
Accepting.

Being alone in the meadow.
But enjoying all that is left.
All that is bequeathed to me.
The meadow that is peace.

The only solace to the shattered mess that is
My Heart.
My Mind.
My Soul.

But the waters whisper comfort.
The Stars show light, in this time,
Dark as Onyx.
Tracing the lines on my skin.
With the soft comforts of this meadow within a valley.

The Pain.
The Meadow.
The Comfort.

All from you.

All for me.

You are both suffocating.
He finds his air in the space that he’s not getting,
You find it in the words that he's not saying,
You both turn blue.

You are both unhappy.
His face makes that burden lighter,
Your face is just another one on the pile.
You both see the meaning in the word “crush”

You are both looking for an escape.
To him, you are a cage,
To you, he is the key,
You both are trapped.

Both eyes stand open,
His are mahogany with rims of gold and flecks of amber,
Yours are brown,
Neither of you are color-blind.

You both share the same humor,
Your laughter is loud and carries,
His laughter is music and dances,
Both of your stomachs hurt.

You both sit silently,
He enjoys the quiet,
You enjoy his presence,
Neither of you speaks.

Living in the style of a Shakespearian play,
we are all tragedies,
Perhaps with a comedy thrown in the middle.

You and I,
We’ve been the
Lovers
In this
Divine Comedy
Far Longer than
Romeo or Juliet
Could bear to wait.

Yes, we have abandoned
The Unities of
Time
Place
And Action

So harshly,
That even we
Have grown into
A bored audience;

Searching out
Our Comedic Ending

But we’ve never really been
Good at timing.  

We’ve made our
Repeated Exits.

Always coming back
A Cue
Too early
Or
A Line
Too late.

Each time
Twisting words
And Actions
Trying to make
Each other fit back into
Our Plot.
But what if we are the truest
Star Crossed Lovers

As our plays don’t even
Have the same
Title?

It has always been
“To be with eachother
or
To Not be with eachother”

And I really, really don’t want
To end like Hamlet.

But the fault seems to be
In the stars,
As each of our
Actions
Seems to seek
More and more
For a resolution

That neither
Our
Stage Directions
Nor
Lines
Seem to offer.

We round ourselves out
With table work
And character development

But with each interaction
We find that we are
Static, together.  

It seems as if
We were a rough draft,
Left unfinished.

So we stand on this
Threshold,
Clinging to another possible
Classic.
But dissolving into the oblivion
That all
Unfinished works of Art
must face.

We are less than a tragedy,
As our deaths are silent
And no one will ever weep at our tale,
Simply because it will never have been told.

At my brink of oblivion,
I want you to know
Our story should be a history,
Simply a reflection
On the fact
That we were
Not fiction.

Lower than
King Henry
And
King Charles,

But Still,
Real
Like
A Golden Crown
For which we did not ****,
But simply pleaded
To no avail.

They say grieving is different for everyone,
But they can never truthfully explain how.

It was not until my south star exploded
That I could understand how many constellations would be ruined

Like the godmother who would forever spend Saint Patrick's day drinking in memory of both nephew and mother;

Like the little brother who was forced to become the oldest;

Like the uncle who shuddered at seeing his own son's demise too clearly;

Like the step-mother who would hate herself for being right all along;

Like the friend who would cut up his life with the same murderous knife;

Like the father now blinded from the absence of the son's light;

And like the sister who was forced to break the promise of future reconciliation.

None of them could understand how the planets had aligned this way,

And none of them could find their former orbit,

But rather, would follow the path of the star dust left behind

Flinching at it as if it were glass,

Embracing the sting

Because it is all that is left

Of the brightest star in their sky.

As I see your texts flash across my scene,
I notice how those letters
don’t look like they’re holding up your world.
They don’t look like they’re trapped on a single page of a hometown small atlas,
far away from any oceans.
As the first leashed fish I’ve ever seen,
I can see you tearing at your shrinking collar,
never having needed claws before.
Finding yourself belly up,
Accustomed to suffocating
On behalf of the guppies running from
Their own sharks.
I wonder if they know that they put their blood on you,
Making you smell like a prime target
For demons and sharks alike.
Hoping if you swim this way
And that
You’ll create a whirlpool,
Big enough, small enough,
Enough,
In your longer than expected attention span,
Hoping that the funnel might drag away their sharks,
But now you find it was not the demons,
But they who didn’t know how to swim,
And you
Struggling to teach what is innate to you,
Finding you’ve made your own endless funnel,
Drowning in the water that taught you to breathe.

Your Words splatter like paint across my skies

Your heart showing like a movie screen before my eyes

Moving fast on its wake to the hearing hearts of the reader

But it has become my favorite movie

Each sentiment sincere, each word sopping with desire

Each thought spoken, a treasure.

Written, a paradise

And felt, a haven of wonder.

The loving eyes eave the curving roads of my steps following closer than a scorned lover.

Welcomed, though.

Inviting the all seeing eye into your life. Putting a hand out to a perhaps scary visitor.

All the people in your life, by choice, your own control.

Letting yourself bond the option and the reality.

Hands so sincere
Sure of every move they make.
Guiding the air to itself.

Mixing into itself. Meeting the Particle and making it whole. A pair to change the lives around it. Going in bonded, as one thing.
They come out, hopefully still bonded, made of something very different.

Carbon products is all we are.

At the Elements mercy.

One disappears and there we go struggling.

But you are one element I could not do without.

The bare pads
of her toes
thumped

across
the photo-faded
tiles

Fingertips
outstretched
at full attention

Precious enough
to catch
the kiss

only
mama's lips
could gift

She walked
away
slowly

taking
great
care

exhibiting
to all who
didn't know

the only thing
she knew to
treasure

I was red wine,
You were blueberry.

I was robust and full-bodied
Maybe the only one
As unpredictably
rich as you

And much worse
At concealing it

We joined in
Meals where we only
Discussed
What we were hungry for.

But in our starvation
We confused eachother

For food
And we tore
Ourselves
Apart

Imagine Breakfast
Lunch, and Dinner

Smiling across
at you
From the other side of
Your pillow

Because we
Weren’t after sustenance

It was never your taste
That satisfied
but still I had been licking
The salt off of your skin

Somehow, I was the one
That felt raw in the morning

But we were new to
The institution
Munchies were to be
Expected

But our empty calories
Created blockages around my heart

Only the basic needs
Slipped through
Reminding me of
The hunger I was stifling

We boiled over
And looked elsewhere for feed

You had broken
Your diet lifestyle
Not seeing how
Emaciated it had made you

You indulged yourself
On the richness of being filled

And you threw it up
Silently in the bathroom
Flushing away
The burning

So no one
Would ever know

But I saw the color
Return to your cheeks
As we set our table
For the meal we would

Never eat.

I feel I go in slow motion
Until
My brain has
Fast Forwarded
myself into
beyond the end of my life.
The eternity that haunts
my beating heart.

She wears a sterling silver lie on her finger,

A Christmas gift, unintentionally leading her into Fraud,
months after the wrapping paper had been torn away.

Never gifted with piano fingers, hers pulsated with words waiting to pour through her pen

Having passed faith tests with flying colors,  she looked at the rounded Christ less crucifix, Jesus replaced with fashionable jewels,

She believed it was a medal for coming out alive and in faith

Little did she know that the test was a mere three months away

Not unfamiliar with temptation,

She knew her weakness,

Knowing herself only to be human,

Seeing the ins and outs of her fragility,

Still pushing onward into hope,

Bordering on the suburban developed atheism, but always landing on the grassy faith.

But as one who was too old to be young forever, there was one whose failure

Would drag her out to the desert littered in nihilism.

She feared how at home she felt there,

Seeing her reflections not in any oasis, but in the land that once held such promise

But had been drained of breath and water

The dry ground being undistinguishable from her feet,

too tired to keep going, too broken to stay,

Ignoring that lone piece of metal, glaring from her fingers,

Being covered in the dried and drained land,

Hiding away the lie that was stuck to her,

Fingers swollen with the untapped sap,

Too thickened with sorrow to be drained easily,

Growing into her skin, scarring over,

Ingrown faith, digging itself under her skin,

Unavoidable metal in a desert so bleak,

A Medal that brought prior pride

Now a blood clot in vain of surviving.

I have to write a paper
But I want to write a poem about you

Of course, I’ve procrastinated
On both of my tasks

It is the night before this
Deadline

Yet I still can’t come to see you
As a distraction

So I will type out
The rungs of this term paper

Queue up letter by letter
Of my passing grade

Drag my feet from thesis
To conclusion

Paying my price of admission
With time

Until I’m so close
I get hit by your flashing lights

Blue and round
Putting any barker to shame

I see them through downpour of
Pressure

And winds of
Insomnia

Knowing I’ll get there,
Get to

The Ultimate
Attraction

As I wince to inhale
I wonder if
I've lost the taste for your smokes
or if I've lost the taste for you.

We sit down
At the Bar

You remark on
My posture

We order
Your favorite

Jack and
Coke

We sling
Them back

Double Shots
Burning my belly

Your eyes fill
With disbelief

I can see
The photographs flash

In front of
You

School Pictures
Prom Photos

Graduation
Shots

All Stacked up
Underneath this very

Bar-
Stool

My eyes roll
Away from sentimentality

Laughing it
Off


I order
Two more

I can hear you
Tell me to

Slow
Down

As if
Recorded into

A Broken
Record

Even now
I’m still

Your Baby
Sister

As My
Vision Doubles

Your Smile
Remains

As One

Though
your voice

Seems to grow
Faint

My throat begins
To burn

Feeling myself
Crying out

Over a space
Much more vast

Than the distance
Between

Our two
Barstools

Before I misplace
Myself Completely

You
Catch me

Your other Half
Your little twin

I will
Not be

Doubled
Over

We are
Celebrating

This
Birthday

As I blink
To see you

Through
My blear

I see you
Preparing

To
go

Mirroring my moves
To put me at ease

But your
Cheeks

Have lost
Dimension

Your color
No longer

Changes in
The light

You pull your
Hands away

Not wanting to
Make me

Cold

Insisting I’m
Warm

My clammy
Palms

Push
Forward

Just in
Time

To
Catch

That
Paper

Wafting
Down

I ****** it
Up

Staring at
Your smile

That always
Did

Photograph
Well

Flipping it
Over

I tried to
Remember

When you had
Signed

This photo
You could never

Have known
About

I refuse
The answer

Wary of the lies
You will believe  

When you
Split drinks

With A Memory.

The rise and fall of our music seemed to synthesize into the light of the room. Our voices seemed to grow inside of us, padded with memories and laughter, growing full with the alcoholic nourishment, until all at once, it would bubble over into a crescendo. It was sharp and soft, harsh and tender, filling our ears with colors we had forgotten to remember in the corpse of the last few days. The staccato bite of reality brought the symphonies down to piano sobs that lulled the night into its dream. The room had a haze, golden in its familiarity, but the tune on the books was not quite right, the time signature gone. The rhythm was unsure; even the conductor pacing wildly about, looking up only to hear the echo of a waltz he once danced to in jubilee, with the promise of a life ahead. The music was now faded, on a greyscale, just like the wedding album. Only he could hear the melodies that had pulled him beyond the brink of love, under the threshold of its great fortissimi. He was content to have it play as the score to his remaining years, muffled and muddled, refusing to rest in his harmonious love affair. Unfamiliar with his own melody, his voice was shy, shaking, and broken. The audience sat, waiting to hear the sounds that could come from the maestro, straining in a beg to hear hope.

I wanted to text you and tell you
I loved you
and
Needed you
I wanted to spout off affections
like they were the first story ever told
I wanted to rewrite history
And
Reverse the revolution
Because I've come to realize
that I miss the fit of my Red Coat

Every Second Away From You

is

Time Wasted.

We knew it wasn’t over
Because our eyes
Always found
Eachother’s
Before they hid
In the cinderblock
Across the room.

Stop looking at yourself
as half of
an incomplete puzzle,

you are
your
own
*******
work of art,

indivisible,
and non depreciable.

The
Silence
Is
Killing
Me
One
Body
Shutter
At
A
Time

It breaks me seeing her back in your life,
Mostly cuz I had once thought she was your past
And I was your future

I didn’t know
She was your everything
And I was your nothing at all.

I just can't fathom the idea that one day's "Just not in a talking mood" expanded into two weeks of heartbroken silence

Empty eyes
Scan the room
For a solvent

To dissolve
The boarding sadness
Feeling at home in my truth

Hiding behind honest lips
Despair coats
My throat

Tricking me into believing
That it’s going down
Like water

Voices chanting
In bonds
Made by weakened spirits

Shot
Shot
Shot,

I take.

Chuuug
Guuulp
Sluuug,

I fade.

Eyes wander,
Looking in my skull,
For a brain

Before Answering
a knock
at my lips

Peck
Peck
Smooch.

The blur
Drags us
Away

My eyes
Disillusioned with romance
Scan the room

Hollowly thankful
No one heard my
Signal

Wondering
If he can taste
How raw

My voice has become.

Truth is the word
That we’ve always
embroidered
Onto my pillow

But instead
It’s that I’ve never had
Enough knowhow
To sew my

Secrets anywhere
Except the
Soft, pin-cushiony
Pink of my lips

It is always you
With truth shears in
The hand you’re always
Extending

That sets them
Free
To fly and
Find light

Your work on
Our tapestry
With little fingers
And quiet tenderness

That many
Will never
Feel

Your vision
Of our bigger picture
Unravels before me

Making more sense
With Every stitch

When I leave my
Heart
In places so
Cold

You help me
Pull strings
To drag me back
To myself

You remind me
That my fabric is
Fragile and
Precious,

But never to fear
Cutting away
What no longer
Fits

Being Raggedy Ann
Always comes with
Its share
Of loose threads

And I’m forever
Thankful

That you
Tie them,
Hands un-judging

In knots
As intricate
And beautiful
As your soul.

I walked into our chapel
shoulders back,
head high,
dignified.

No Catholic shame
forced my eyes
to the mosaic aisle

Trodden Over
by my Sandaled feet,

It was a feast day,
praising God
with our laughter
and shared
beneficence.

We joined
in joyful prayer,
receiving each other's
sacrament
with the reverence
of saints

but just as I sang
the psalms the loudest
there came
an unholy silence,

Believing I was being
tempted,
I fell to my knees,
contemplated
your wonder

waiting for your return
to your
prodigal lover;

squandering our
sacred time,
not counting the blessings of
our moments of grace.

I hung upon
my silent cross,
weeping into my
wine-soaked rag

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani  

Descending into
Despair,

Waiting for
an Easter
that I swore
had been prophesized,

Even upon your
high holy
return,

you seemed resurrected,
and yet I not saved.

I felt like Moses
on his day of death
beholding
the promised land
covenanted by
souls

and yet
remaining in
this desert
thirsty for
the wellspring
that seemed to be sitting
behind your eyes,
the water that would
quench
my forever thirst.

Despite the ache
in my dried mouth,
I'd find
the will
to stand upon my feet,
tired of relying on
a charitable heart's
sympathies
as my means of
living.

But I found
that I was
praying for
too much
from you

and I fell upon
my knees again,

wondering if
humility is meant
to leave you feeling
this broken.

And so begins the litany
of sacrifices

wondering

if you are my
love made flesh
why it is I who is

scourged,
stripped of dignity,
nailed to a cross
that I had brought here
myself

Mumbling words out
to a silent heart
that I know
hears me.

Thinking that surely
our death
will meet me soon.

But by
the clever grace of
the devil

I continue,
finding life
that should have
diminished
at two o' clock.

Is Hannukah
not
supposed to be
a celebration?

Because while burning
in this modest
Menorah lifestyle,

sacred
and
devout.

I find faith
in you

and have been shepherded
to no redemption,

but only the
salty pillars
of one who trusts
in gods
created by another God.

And upon this realization,
I rush to confession,
knowing my worship
of false idols
is not over.

As I remember
our love
as beautiful
and mighty,

I'm forced
also to remember
that
Lucifer, too,
fell when things were at
perfection.

Try as I might,
I must turn my face away,

with the hope
that something
greater

truly does await
for one
who loved paradise,
body and soul,

with the finality
of resurrection.

I’ve been caressed and loved, Many a time before. But this.
This is my ecstasy.
This moment.
This memory now.


I could not have crafted any more beautiful moment.
There were so many different paths I could have traveled
in order to arrive at this most wonderful paradise,
but I look behind me and smile at the road I have taken.
For this exact path,
is what brought me to the wonderful perfection
that has come into reality.
There were so many different events that may have come into being from my own mind and heart,
but what has come to me is more beautiful than a full moment.
Its briefness is what makes it so dazzling.
That fleeting moment of extraordinary and wonderful.
It was the glimpse of flawlessness that my heart needed to fall.
It was subtle and soft, such as a wilting blossom just touched by the morning dew,
still tender and fragile,
but still a beauty in its own form.
There was perfection.
There was paradise.
It was that moment,
and that moment is ours.
On a constant repeat in my mind,
never wanting this feeling of wonder to ever fade.
Although the moment was brief,
I was awake and aware.
Ready to cling on the the perfection
that I knew
would only last an instant.
I wonder if it was perhaps,
as lovely as I have imagined it to be.
But perhaps it’s better to perceive the amazement where there doesn’t call for any,
than to have never felt it at all.
This exquisiteness is a gift,
either from the God of Love
or the God of Fools,
or even perhaps, the God of Hope.
Whichever you pick,
I keep it locked away in my heart.
Safe from the torment of the conscious mind and the world of doubt.
It remains there,
as a light shining for me to feel,
and perhaps,
for all to see.
That moment.
That will be mine, forever.

You are my “Former”
As in used to be
As in the past
As in it’s okay for you to date her
As in I don’t mind seeing her show back up in your life
As in I don’t wonder if she knows that I exist at all
As in it doesn’t crush me when I remember our beginning, not so far from our ending
As in I have had months to be okay with this
As in I don’t cry about could have been’s
As in I don’t feel stupid for thinking I could have held a candle to her
As in I didn’t really believe it when I said we could have a future even after the breakup
As in I haven’t picked apart every flaw that sits within me that I have no way of actually knowing are absent in her
As in I wasn’t really thinking that our post-breakup hook ups meant anything
As in I knew people don’t work like that anymore
As in my heart doesn’t break when I think about her kissing you
As in of course I know we said I love you too soon and we couldn’t have known what we were saying
As in it definitely is okay for you to go back with her
As in it’s not like it’s only her that bothers me
As in it’s cool that I knew this the whole time
As in I don’t care that I could hear it in your voice when your eyes glassed over the sound of her name
As in I really really really don’t mind
As in, sure, I’ll be fine, I didn’t mind being second best
Again.

I think I need to work on my
Enunciation
Because every time I say
“I Love You”
It seems to come out as
“Good Bye”

There was a tale of three.

A he, a she, and a me.

He had eyes,
Projector screens,
Reflecting the films you play in your head.

She, a Hollywood queen,
Hair as gold as her heart,
A sucker for romance,
Caught by his flashbulb smile.

Me, the screenwriter,
Knowing the business enough
To recognize the mechanics
Behind the greatest actor
In the world.

Award winning half truths
That I could swear were written by me
Find their other halves
Written in starlight
Shooting from the mouth of he,

The lifetime achievement of
She
Limited to their happily ever after.

Me, playing back over footage
Replaying the scene unfolding between them,
Trying to hear a romantic score,

But rather being bored
By the actor's lazy gestures,
Me, being deafened by the silence
Of this pantomime.

She, while skilled at book work,
Had simply been miscast
By he, who had not yet planned his end scene.

There is a temptation within Me,
To write myself into her part,
But I know,
This show is not about me.

She was not the wrong actress,
Just simply playing a part
Diverting from action.

She froze the plot,
So they existed as pictures,
Perfect in pixels,
Worth a thousand words,

Only no one would ever speak them,
Potential untapped.

I gaze at the screen,
Drifting to sleep in boredom

Being woken at any sign
of the screen going
Dark,

Only to have their starlight,
Lull me back
Into the writer's dream.

I used to scratch my arms so much
that I would bleed,

Incidentally, when I'm feeling small
my arms get really itchy.

But I just crossed an ocean
on a jet-plane that fit

hundreds of me's.
And I didn't feel small.

I saw monuments that you
can see from space,

I walked over cobblestones
of the eternal city,

seeing the span of time
outstretch through my every day,

I ate food that
traveled millennia to arrive in my stomach,

And I didn't feel small.
Contrarily,

I felt the tiber plowing through
my wine-colored waterways,

My shoulders adapted their posture
to the lean of the Singelgracht,

I stared Vesuvius in the eye,
standing upon its ashen stillborn city.

Yet the itch never
came. Flying back

To my little pond, I wondered
If there would be enough room to

Fit the new me.
And step by step,

I tip-toed back to the bed
I thought had been left

Untouched in my absence.
But when I laid my head down,

I turned into Alice,
Drowning in my sheets,

They had gone back to my pillows,
And invited a stranger in,

Stretching out my space to where
Only they could fill it just right.

And now I’m small enough to see
Bed bugs, nibbling their way up

And down my shrunken arms.
I ponder over the possibilities

Of charms being mixed in with
Grapes, aged with cheese,

Deliciously tricking me into
Believing all of this was good

For a growing girl.
As I call up to the giants

Who used to be my height,
I recognize they can only hear me

Via echoes, a subdued volume
Of my former cries.

Only being as small as a pest,
Can I see how the molecules of

Matter really do shift,
A best friend can

Neither be created
nor destroyed,

Only moved about, shifted
From one sleep-mate

To another.
I sit with the bed bugs

I do not itch anymore,
I am the itch.

The bottom of the glass is second only to the view of your face.

She listened to music that sung out her vacancy,
Allowing only those chords to be felt,
Keeping the emptiness
To ensure the sacredness of
Her ritual.

I’ve heard you talk about people from your past. I’ve seen your eyes stare off into traffic, never even blinking as their hollow names march out of your mouth. I’ve felt a cold air blow through the distance between you and them, the blood in your heart no longer pumps into their severed arteries. The skin of that part of you has gone grey in pallor. Your memories are stiff in rigor mortis, no longer pumping with thoughts of tomorrow. Instead of laying those memories to bed for another day, you bury them in their graves, only allowing them to become unearthed when someone wants to ***** their hands to find something to grab on to, something to plant themselves in.

I wish I would have known then
That I was digging my own
Place of Unrest.

I hate the taste of American Spirits
But my lips crave the taste of you.

My heart was promised long ago
To a man known not by me
When I was young and he was old
and I not his Anabel Lee

I forsaken
on this path untaken
bound to wander
and Never be Free

Of the Grip I feel,
of a man who can only be half real,
to the Likes of Me.

Wherever he lay,
Deeply I pray,
He May never know of Me.

While I dream of day
And hear God say,
A Blessing and a Curse unto
Thee

To love with a love
that is more than love,
but never be allowed to utter
the treasured "we".

Glimpses of faces
Leaving the bitterest Traces
To mock and taunt the waking of me.

Searching For
the Wide Open Door
of a Home with
No Vacancy

Winter's Cold
and Summer's Scauld
Are no strangers to me.

The days drag on,
knowing this bitter song,
plays on, endlessly.

I wait for the sleep,
with a lover's cold creep,
to kiss my lips,
grab my fingertips,
and Squelch the Promise Sworn Not By Me

For I know not how long,
I can have courage and be strong
Knowing I'm not anyone's Anabel Lee