Pray the gray away he said fur coats and bronze feathered head bands long ciggerates and bed pans maids glamorous, you'd be perfect there, a princess of the 20's. Velvet sheets, hands on your knees, arched back off the bed, different positions, I'll live to please, I'll kiss you from the tip top all the way down to your feet, you're beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

there’s a lullaby the wind chimes used to hum as i sat outside my house. i observed synodic epiphanies in the sky until all i could do was make a dot-to-dot of your face out of the stars that were almost as intangible as you are and as you always were.

i always found myself searching for traces of you everywhere. the sound of your voice as a symphonic ultrasound echoing from the wind chime to me, just for me. your effervescent hazel eyes (you always insisted they were brown but i’d studied them as a psychologist studies mental health) but you never came.

and trust me, i waited --
i waited for so much as a murmur or a rustled blade of grass when the world stood still and i waited in the morning, the afternoon and i waited all night.

i waited all **** night in nothing but a pair of leggings (you told me i looked “pretty sweet” in them once) and your jumper, the jumper you left at my house on may 16th. hummingbirds were the highlight of your morning and the highlight of my morning was always you.

you made scrambled eggs with milk and only a dash of pepper because too much gave you an itchy throat and then you took my hand and we slow danced along to the sound of the microwave; it was like a heavy duty drill begging to explode but we didn’t care.

i wore your jumper then the way i’m wearing it now, except i’ve tucked my hands into my sleeves because yours aren’t there to hold anymore.

i always found myself not only searching for traces of you everywhere but also searching for you in everybody i've ever met (and probably everybody i ever will meet). where’s that succulent sense of humour? where’s that desirable distaste for all humans besides me? you were intangible but somehow tangible to me and i mused over your ability to turn me from a servant into a queen but my gratitude overwhelmed me too much to question it, or you.

your name is euphonious;
i swirl it around my mouth like expensive champagne.
my stomach can tolerate neither.

My heart is laced with thoughts of you
And when it beats, I come into
A place where we still laugh and play
And lay and kiss our days away
Sunday mornings wrapped beneath
Blankets hiding tangled feet
Skipping breakfast, sleeping in
Hungry for the thrill of sin
You nipped my neck, I licked your jaw
Days turned in to tomor
rows that faded fast and free-
dom you wanted more than me

Perhaps I wasn't made for anyone,
Perhaps I was made to stay alone,
With my thoughts,
And my words,
But perhaps,
On a better side of things,
Perhaps,
I was made for myself.

the bitterness is debilitating
and normally i'd fix that
with my writing but it's
writing that is making me
more bitter about it all

it isn't easy being a fraud
desperate for a place
longing for a practice
a hobby or whatever else

i look upon approving audience
when i dream, when i dream
i am accepted as a poet
separate from paralyzing falsities

but when i write i'm just a number
a broad categorization of where
my "art" is aimed
i sound like so many others that
sound so much like myself

will i ever transcend my
limitations? will there ever be
depth to what i have to share?

i don't change lives i just change minds

when i write i'm just a number