"Who should defend the moon if not the poets?"
Set the fires, let them burn.
The poets are watching,
Hold their gaze, stare them down.

Let them watch you, I vouch on their behalf, they will fall in love.
See how they defend all that their eyes linger upon.
You get to leave, but being forgotten is not your choice.

I wonder if like witches, the poets too were shunned.
Unanimously void of acceptance,
they hear battle cries where conversations are held.

The moon, her shadows. The earth her hollows
The poets go on to fight for all that they love,
I wonder how they reached this particular sparse,
A stretch of once lush but now fading grass.
A sad willow fueled by a writer's insatiable hunger.
Its roots reach deep, and its memories never fade.
The tree sags and groans, and empty nooses swing from where once dead weight hung.

I wonder if invisibility convinced the poets, that to love is to see and
To see is to show. So showmanship became a pre-requisite of their love.
But laced with it is fierce protectiveness of where they belong.
Is that why they're quick to defend another's flaws?
Baring their pens and flexing their claws.
Finding a million reasons to adorn the ones long gone?
They keep draping their dead muses with literary scarves.
In jewels, they bend over backwards to give but never grasp.

Always an Angel, Never a god.
Always the Artist never the art.

I defend the poets, for I was cursed with a poet's heart.
We wear our scars like medals from wars and
We will love till we crumble,
I wish the poets a soft love.
The love that they write and read about.

I wish the poets, a soft love,

I identify as the lipstick stain on your cigarette ****.

Why must grief return in waves?
I can only hope,
It feels safe housed in me.

I think I understand hookups and one-night stands now.

The key to moving on is to replace all that stood before
until there stands nothing that may cause you to unravel.

Moment by moment,
conversation by conversation,  
I replace the replays,
I can't bear the thought
of another touching me, like I'm not yours.

I got another ring today, all big and loose.
It's funny how I picked this one,
it keeps slipping off my fingers like you did.
It's been two months since I last wore your ring.
I don't see a difference between them,
it feels the same on my thumb.
and that should be the end of it,
but oh well, I guess it isn't.

I walked to the grocery store, paused at an aisle,
took my time frowning over chocolate bars.
You used to get me Munch, and so I picked the Mars bar.

I don't skip meals now, (well, most days I don't)
and in place of our routine conversations,
I play a random show.

I drown noise with noise.

My days are decent.
I'm surrounded by mindless jibber jabber.
I participate.
I paste a bright smile.

“You look well now,” they say,
“Well, I am” I reply.
And I am fine. (I think I am?)
9/10 times I am.

Then in a random mundane moment,
memories of you resurface like a ring light and
in that single moment,
I let myself crumble.

“I don't want him back.
He's changed now.
So have you and so what?
If it's meant to be, it'll be.
He's the love of my life.
Well don't let him in,
when (not if) he comes back.

Do it from love, not for it.
You deserve happiness.
Both of you do.

You want love.
You are love.
The ocean doesn't look for its water,
Why will you look for what you have?

It is what it is.
and this too shall pass.”

So on and so forth my inner monologue goes on,
and I stare at my phone wondering if I can conjure you from my thoughts.

I am kinder now.
With myself, and everyone around.
I wish I were kinder to you, but I was just a child.

I know you're proud,
and I am of you too.

Do you think I can sculpt my favourite version of you?
Wait, no.
I already did that,
I loved all of you
and then everything fell apart.

My thoughts swirl and I let them play.
Incantations in my head
Obligatory 3 am, weary sighs, contempt and rage.
Oh, so much rage.
Where is the calming lull of sleep, when you need it to sedate your despair?

Resignation sets in, I play a familiar game.
I ask the universe and unbiasedly it delivers the same day.

"Universe, give me a sign, I'm really done this time.
Yellow flowers if he's coming back,
Dandelions if he's not.
Universe let me move on. This is the last time, "

In my version of He loves me, he loves me not
I break flowers, not petals.

I look for answers in colours and not action,
And then I saw a dozen Dandelions.

Thunder covers the
sound of me whimpering into my pillow.
The earth is crying too.