Her last glimpse of me
Is of the dark tones of my shirt
Smudged into the shades
Of a busy crowd.

I am caught between
Two types of wills.
A will
To live
And a will
To be read
After death.

love is the crustacean
who remains after the moon
has pulled away the waters of infatuation

I’m lost in my own house
Memories are painted everywhere
They remind me like painful scabs
That my house was once a home.

I’m lost in my house
Because it feels like you are
Around every corner
But I can’t find you anywhere.

Your absence is everywhere.
It has left wells
Invisible inside each room.
Cold, dry, and hollow, they echo you.

They make me swear
That I can hear you
(your pitter-patter,
or your snoring,
or  your breathing)

They make me swear
That I can still see you
(laid down to nap
on the couch,
or on our bed)

They make me swear
That I can still feel you
(lumped beside my feet,
sprawled on top,
of the covers of our sheets)

The only thing real
The only thing left
Is your scent
That still clings to the blankets

Even with all these empty wells
In all of these empty rooms
I have only one hopeless wish.
Just one little wish.

To find you in our house
To make your way back home.

The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades
winding the wings of the key.
She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.
                                                         ­          The wooden bench shrinks,
her lips begin to part and let out
                                                             ­          balmy breath of steam
                                                           ­                                                                 ­    a smog that fogs his glasses.
She’s wound and bound to kiss him.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                   He wants this, too.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­     His engine begins to putter
                                                          ­                                                                 ­              as he begins to pucker.
                                                         ­              Their cold lips meet,
and while an explosion in her core smolders,
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                 he feels like a machine,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­    running through the motions,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­             trying to produce magic,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                   but feeling artificial.
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                  A bolt must be *******,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                       a wire out of place,
                                                          ­                                                               something is jamming his gears,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 a rhythm out of beat.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                  He should feel alive.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  He should want this.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                 He should want this.
                                                           ­             Its just animatronics.
                                                   ­           Aren’t men built to love women?
                                                          ­          He pushes her face off his.
                                                            ­                            Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate,
while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black
like oil streaking her face.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  He’s sorry.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               He’s so sorry.
                                                          ­                   He hurt her.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                      He hurt a friend.
                                                    Wind so white fills the distance between them
                                                            ­His wet hands grab her red mittens,
but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches
and puts them back inside her cage,
safe in her black pocket,
and walks away, leaking,
busted and broken.
White erases her.
                                                            ­                       He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.
                                                           ­                                                        A dent has shattered his almost love,
                                                           ­                                                        and a first kiss he wished he missed.