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We bond over sad songs and broken memories,
a toast to the times we shared
and the places we've gone.
And though they're only in my mind
I hold them dear
like the memories were real.
The times we ****** up,
or even stayed home on a cold winters night
curled up together in a blanket because the heat went off.
your love was like pure ecstasy,
warm and wonderful
but depressive after the come down
realizing you were never and will never be here,
as I want you to be.
So I locked the door to my cold room
curled up and waiting for a reply,
any reply
instead of this silence.

The smoke rises from the cigarette
she puffs as if moments from her life
were floating away.
Each puff tearing away another fragment,
every story stripped away from her.
But she needs it.
Like some sort of
magical elixir
that maybe, somehow, might ease the pain.
Her paper heart has been duck taped back together
too many times;
there are holes where her love should be,
filled with alcohol soaked corks and anything else that could
heal her fragile heart, white with powder.
She snorts lines of hope on her dresser in the morning,
little crystals that shine brightly in the sun, neatly clumped like long rows of sand in the desert forming long hills. Eventually, she thinks, I'll be free of this paper heart.

His bed is the ocean
created by tears flowing
from heart ache and abuse,
but also tears of joy
that gently rock him to sleep at night, cradling his every thought, collecting in his head like stars in the sky.
The constellations of his mind forming songs, and poems and god knows what that boy can dream of.