Do peach petal tears stream down her heart?
Drinking sweet nectar from her lips,
My eyes fall upon gold coated truths
Forever pouring from her throat.

Everything is imperfect-
The space
Between your eyes.
The crooked white
Inside your half-smile.
The paper-cutting
Scissor bangs
That frame your face.

You chopped them late
In a dim-lit bathroom.
Flickering neon against the blade.

Tucking tongue under breath,
Chunks of midnight strands
Refracting grey-silver dreams
Fell to the floor like splinters
Hurled from breaking wood.

With crescent moons
Formed on each cheek,
The mirror smiled.

Intoxicated from the weight of euphoria,
Silence drips viscously into the soul
Until drowning is no longer a fear,
But an option.

Feet wet from nostalgia
Of ungraspable motions,
Time rests heavily on dewed eyelids...

The soul buries itself further.

Time allocates rebirth to nature,
But what of human kind?
Emerging from pink elastic walls-
They call it a miracle of life!
Only to end up as food for flowers.

And everyone is so obsessed
With making the most of their
Time.

What magnificent gardens shall
Accompany their Death?
Curtains of wisteria, rose-red poppies,
Flowers that speak a language
That disregards the natural flow
After sinking into that dark hole.

Delusional!
We don't rest in the garden of Babylon,
Or some fancy European botanical.
Tourists don't ooo and ahhh at the beauty
Of our Lives.

Remembrance after Death
Must be some kind of joke,
Because all I see are
Forgotten tombstones and weeds.

Your cotton-balled mind
Drowns out noise
While heals hit
Stiff, unyielding pavement

Everything is like
The annoyance
Of a mosquito buzz

And swatting
Is just a motion-
Like your legs taking you down the sidewalk
Like your eyes staring at the cracking grey
As you hurriedly move past
Impersonal shadows

When a butterfly floats past,
How do you feel?

The masses respond with vacant eyes,
"I feel empty"

She was a wilting flower,
Delicately fading
Into the depth of her sorrow.

Her eyes-pooled gossamer stars
Falling from constellation webs.
Bouncing on the tile before losing shape
In the atmosphere.

My soul was swallowed into
Her sorrow,
And stayed there.

And when I held her,
It was like trying to hold on to refracting light.