i've begun to notice
the end of love is a bit like cancer

in the beginning stages,
you may not even notice
anything is wrong.
once in awhile,
something out of the ordinary occurs
and you convince yourself
you have control

then, you're in denial of the disease.

don't be ridiculous,
i'm fine.
we're fine.

exponentially it gets worse
out of your control

until one morning you wake up
to clumps of hair on your pillow from
the attempts to stop the
disease
and you're left embarrassed
vulnerable
stripped of your will and
energy

until finally,
you give in.
you're defeated.
you're both defeated.
all you can do is wait
for it to conquer you

and even if you heal
you know you'll never be the same
you'll always be scarred

Gang ****. wars. famines.
iPad screen a shield between
news of death
and your life.

around, around, around we
go, tripping over molehills,
ignoring mountains where
diamonds and silver

lay as common as dirt
at the top.
this train is heading in painful
directions, but it would

tickle too much if we stop.
so we don't.
I won't give up my wi-fi
to save every child in a village

I've never even heard of.  
we all say it. inaudibly.
too many of us aboard,
but the water is lovely.

would someone -anyone- please,
please rock
this
boat.

most girls are simply
peacocks
and cliffs, a pair of mountains

house their dangling
hips

but the snow
is kind of blue at midnight
most girls look sick

when eternal is just it

she she she
has a dislocated shoulder

she she she
is as empty inside

most girls are bright
but jump off from cliffs
sometimes

Twenty seven months of sunlight showers,
and I am still white –
can he pull me into vinegar?
Make my skin peel into another shade?

No one will recognize.
Our relationship is an oasis, not on a map
but I can spread like an ancient one –

used to being fingered and opened,
garden is a home of myriad wedding vows
when the wind gusts, he feels a promise
touching concealed cartilage

of his ear. No one has spoken so low and
has been heard by anyone even if
the feeling hangs like ferns from a rooftop.

And our body, our single form
hums in a similar silhouette with him above.
No one can amputate his seed from me:
I keep growing into last December

The skies hold back their
white gold for now.
ground kissed by frost;

everything hard and rigid
under tired feet.
I scrape ice from the

windshield without gloves.
who needs to feel their fingers
anyway?

it's as if every particle between
my face and the stratosphere
is still, not moving so as not

to attract the attention of the
coldness. I follow their example
and look up into the night sky.

stars so clear. so many. for a while
I wonder if some divine hand
has scraped the ice from

the window to
outer
space.