A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

She rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled,
"Nice guys finish last."
My ****** expression remained the same while taking in
what left her tongue as her smile and hand soon left me.
She's going back to the other guy.
The 'bad boy'.
The kind of guy who won't consider her first,
the kind of guy who won't share how he's feeling first,
the kind of guy who lied to her, saying she was his first.
My shoulder, still warm from her hand, shrugs.
It, and the rest of me, know. I'm the guy who touches her the deepest,
I'm the guy who will do anything to see her warm, comforting smile,
I'm the guy who will wait for the bad boy to break her heart.
I'm the 'nice guy'.
She may come to me lastly, but in her heart,
I will finish first.

She called me




She called me
a little *****

in which five knuckles
and four spaces
were the only faces
that ever turned a light on for me.
Or off, as a matter of fact.

Write it on a flier, or
tie her up in the back of a limousine,
ask her to give you some sugar
and send you to sleep.

Just don't be weird about it.
And seriously,

pay attention,

you just might


burn something.

I think my voice is changing.

I press four fingers into my forehead
and smoke a cigarette like that one writer
I was too cool to ever read. You know,
they treat you like a ******* drug?
A ******* drug!

Past lovers,
and their coat hangars,
I don't wanna talk to 'em,
I don't wanna touch 'em.

But I do;
it's easy to cut into
those veins once you've
found 'em.


*I'm sorry,
so prone
to wasting time,
I love when my head
spins on an axis
all of its own.

her marble bones, cemented to her skin,
her warmth, imagined, from this porcelain,
encased a heart, if any, in its shell,
which beat for me as far as i could tell,
yet beat for some as well towards the end,
though in the end i couldn't tell apart,
the sounds of stone and non-existent heart.

(C)2006, Christos Rigakos