The family dog is dying.
On Saturday,
they press her ****** paws
in cement,
and the eldest daughter swallows
some accidentally.

The middle son is in the backyard
raking leaves
when he tells the neighbor.
The words snag along
the electric plot line
and crumble to bits beneath his teeth,
brushed back and forth into
the leaf pile.

On Sunday,
the mother unfolds the quilt
that the kids use to make forts
onto the kitchen floor.
Her muffled pats on fabric
a motion to the coffin,
the dog spins in a single circle,
then lays down to die.
“This way she will be warm
while she is still with us—”
The eldest daughter vomits
the cement up in the nearby sink.

On Monday,
the father slides his hands
against his dog’s ribs like a xylophone,
then pulls back,
afraid to sound like
the morning alarm.
The family dog is dead.

The youngest daughter takes on the role
of licking her paws,
dried prints on the tile floor
where she lays down to die.

It was only a dream,
That cold lie that we shared.
One fruitless night and one darkening day
Signified that we were impaired.

Pair me off; lose me not.
How can we love as we are ought?
For love is cheap, and seldom bought;
Why buy when you can steal the lot?

A lot’s been taken; I see now…
Taken up and beyond the clouds.
Past the moon and the mist it sees
Up past the stars and the galactic breeze.

It breezed right through us.
I know not how.
All I know is there’s nothing left now.
What was our intention of fleeing that dimension
Since all humanity’s left us now?

No more now is the gentle undulation.
No more now are the sweet sensations-
My eyes are opened, and thus I see:
That cold lie we shared?
It was only a dream.

pressed petals
stained with ink and memories;
he left.

I’m just so tired
of carrying around these heavy bones,
of synthetic smiles and empty words,
of meaningless ***,
of dreams that cling to the sides of my head;
this chewed up, spat out,
sticky, deformed hope—
the kind you unknowingly step on,
carry with you for awhile
and notice suddenly
with a face twisted in disgust.
The same reeking kind you spend hours
digging out of the soles of your shoes
with a broken stick.

And just I’m tired.

I’m tired
of ******* the poison out of this wound,
of tasting its hot, tinny infection,
of the uncertainty of recovery,
of your one-man audience.
I’m tired of being tired,
and I’m tired of admitting
that I was a naive enough
to offer up the best parts of myself
to something pining for so much less.
I
will never be
less.

I’m tired, but I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m searching.
When I find myself again,
when I regenerate all of those best parts,
I won’t be tired.
I’ll be this amazing
[*******]
spectacle,
and I’ll make sure you and less
have the finest mezzanine seats
for the one thousand mic drops
I always knew I had in me.

Why can't I?
It should be easy, simple, really.
So why isn't it?
It's me.
My faults, my ideas, my muses, my inspirations that keep me awake at night when I should be sleeping.
It's him, reverbrating through my brain until I can't breathe with anticipation. Why can't I focus?
If only these feelings would back down...
But then, I wouldn't be human.
Am I?

They are so fleeting,
You know, the memories.
The ones of him as we talked about our lives, moaned about homework, philosophized about our futures.
The ones of him smiling as we sat in the same room for the first time, not knowing that the two of us were about to be in for the biggest fall of our lives.
It was a fall. Two, actually.
I fell for him.
He fell for me.
In the cold of the fall, we both fell.
The feelings seem fleeting; but yet we forget---
There is always a key to that file cabinet in the back of my brain, as there is one to his. There will always be a way to revive what seems stretched through limited contact, through busy times, through musicals and businesses.
There will always be time.
And there will always be us.