i never know
which to write
when i sit down
and write to myself

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck

The orange and pink congregate with graceful gestures;

their veins are embossed along the surface of the double-ended raindrop figure;

they are ornaments of the sky.

Their homes welcome those who sit beneath it in the morning light;

with serenity;

and are happy bearers of a tiny breeze.

I am in awe of the Autumn leaves, little ornaments decorated against the baby blue sky.

I want my love for myself
To overflow
And I want my overflow of love
To seep over onto you
But for now
My cup is empty
And maybe you can sense
That I have nothing to offer you

This fragile heart
sometimes bursts into
the tiniest shards
                  of infinity
clear as crystal light
yet empty
as an ocean, waterless
longing
to be filled and filled
over and over
as I would fill you
to the brim
overflowing with
enough life
and love to heal
a thousand
                aching moons