Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

THE LADY in red, she in the chile con carne red,
Brilliant as the shine of a pepper crimson in the summer sun,
She behind a false-face, the much sought-after dancer, the most sought-after dancer of all in this masquerade,
The lady in red sox and red hat, ankles of willow, crimson arrow amidst the Spanish clashes of music,
  
        I sit in a corner
        watching her dance first with one man
        and then another.

He played that guitar
like cupid on a broken heart
or a harmony upon a harp.

The sad instrument wept
his tears unto the dry crowd
and they sighed in saturation.

And once he was drained
of everything he kept contained
they lit their lighters, begging for more.

Alas, he was alive no longer,
and had nothing but great nothings
left to give them.

So they took the silence,
and gave it back to him.

i think about you. a lot. and i don't mean at cliche 2am where poets taint their hands with ink and paper cuts. no. i think about you when i look at the sun rising at 5am. when i make coffee at 6. when bon iver comes up on the radio and i tap my fingers along the tune or when i read your favorite book and on every page i search for fragments of your fingerprint. i think about you at noon. because i'd rather have your lips than my tuna sandwich. and at 2pm because you texted "i miss you" and i replied "i love you". at 5pm as the sun slowly disappears on the horizon and is replaced by a blanket of stars. i think about you at 10 in the evening when i'm alone looking at the night sky and the incandescent moon wishing i could trace your palms the way we tend to trace constellations. i think about you at 3am when i say my prayers and i whisper your name to God with a ghost of a smile. i tell Him i must have done something good to deserve you. it seems that you're stuck in my brain. heck, you're in my veins. and i don't ever want you out of my system.

the night begins to dress the earth
as i kneel beside the windowsill
watching the stars, the only part
of the world left unchanged.

and i listen to you breathe,
your sighs soft like an autumn day.
the nape of your neck curves
like a crane dusted with wanderlust,
its wings unfolded toward the moon.

the way your legs tangle
around your idea of a perfect girl
makes me sink to the floor,
draping my arms around my legs.
i stare down at my kneecaps,
one an oval, the other a full moon –
you would’ve called this imperfection.

but i kneel beside the windowsill
searching for train tracks and
airplanes that’ll lead you home
because even though you tore me apart,
i need to know that when i set you free
you’ll be going someplace better.

and the moon will sigh at the sight
of two not-quite lovers parting, but
i forgive you.

i forgive you for
dreaming of prettier green eyes
and softer skin and
telling me i would never be good enough.

because after i stitch myself back together
i’ll be strong enough to move the stars
closer to the windowsill with my eyes
and stop the effluvia of tears
that’ll pour from my soul every time
i think of you,
breathing.

precariously balanced, these glass shards are.
little pebbles mingle in her hands, forming
a little hill of something that used to be big
and beautiful. the artist, she will keep holding
on until her fingers break and her heart stops.
so she prepares to put the past back together.

breath shaky, she knows that beauty has a price.
so she cancels her weekend plans, give up on
finally cleaning her cluttered room, dons her
work clothes, and begins a project anew.

the artist’s fingers are not trembling, but
her resolve is. there is great pressure; to
be god one must create something out
of nothing. to be an artist, one must create
something beautiful out of a mess. she
does not want to be god, but glass is harder
to piece back together than it is to make.
and she cannot hold it together anymore.

they fall to the floor, the artist and her
failed masterpiece. glass makes a pretty
sound when it breaks, and so does her heart.
a pretty little ****** that resounds in
the floorboards, that travels to the neighbours
and makes them smile because something
almost beautiful but not quite is happening.

beauty has it’s price.
but this artist is too poor to pay in full.

Through the silence
wisps of thought
reach out to me.

They stem from my wistful mind,
and brush past my lips
like passions whispered
mid-kiss.

Hurricanes and foghorns mixing up a ranch on the outskirts of Nowhere
The candlemaker doesn't seem to mind
Reading and rereading collapsing tomes
Cluttered desks, but all is calm inside.
Twisted in corruption, knobbly fingers shaking
Here's a man we'd call wizened.
He's seen all sides of the foreground.

There's a path around his house where nothing grows
His soles made it
Silent and statuesque he trod
Quiet and calm in his solitude
He fears nothing but unrest.

Cryptic script mars the mahogany dresser
A source of comfort, pride
Mystery of bygone days of the infinite October
When the sleepy sun would kiss the earth goodnight
When the dust would catch the light
A gift to the eyes as they lay themselves to rest.