The paint on my paintbrush
may have already dried,

but remember, I did not leave you,
even though I died.

All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies

Today,
You spoke those oh so divine words.
The one's I'd been longing to hear,
Alas, directed towards me.

I asked you of what your mind,
Was so thoroughly focused upon,
And you grinned in skepticism.
At that point I knew.

I knew you were going to articulate,
Those words I'd die to hear.
And I swore that I wanted to hear them.
Until you finally surrendered.

"I was thinking about...
How much I love you," You said.  
My reply, "Good.
Because I was thinking about the same thing."

"I love you too."

I knew I should have told you,
The second I saw you today.
But, as you were,
I was skeptical.

Wrongly so,
For I knew it was my destiny,
To tell you on that day...
Regardless of your reply.

I was afraid it was too early,
But now I realize,
It was almost too late.
It was too late.

I should have told you,
As soon as I knew.
It may have solved everything.
But I didn't.

For that, I apologize.
But I vow to love you,
Until there is not a drop of love,
To be found on this Earth.

Until then,
I will search the morning dew,
Every rain cloud,
And every puddle...

I love you.
It was too late to be early.
Yet, nonetheless,
I mean all three words.

Every afternoon I walked past
and there, sprawled static
amid golden brown grass.

I thought someone would move you,
the stench, the gaunt body
obsolete in feeble autumn sunlight,
winter’s overcoat.

I could not look away
from the rough mustard
and chalk white hair.

Flies, bugs clung to you
like a strong-smelling drug,
ebony eyes open
but you saw nothing.

The gap grew each day,
a lump gone
and before long, the rest.

i want to be the sidewalk under her soles
the gum in her hair
that dark slick of mascara.

i want to breathe the world from her lungs
settle into her bones and
feel it through her fingers.

there is a perfect mauve i picture on her nails.

so yeah i guess i have a type.
dark hair glasses a threat or two-
enough mystery to keep me busy.
and yeah i should have warned you about my
wandering eye.
temperamental.


but it’s not like you’re real when you’re gone

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.