There are 7.6 billion people
In this world.
Behind every set of eyes
A different universe.
I’m in love with yours
But not you
Anymore.
You made mine
*****.
The strings
Of lights
On the trees
Make me sad.
We put them up
In December
And they make us feel
like basement
Temperature
Flat beer juice,
And then January comes
Like law enforcement
To the rager you held
While your parents
Were in Doore County.
And everyone leaves the party.
And we all take the lights down.
This is
1 of 7.6 billion.

Certainly
When she used
To look at me,
All of the factories
Would shut down.
But now,
I see a forest
Filled with vines
That suffocate trees.
They climb and ****
To survive
And I still don’t know why.

You were my cup of coffee,
burning my lips on the first
sip of your being,
making my heart beat faster.
My hands began to shake
as I got half way through you.
But I didn't drink you fast enough
and consequently you became cold.
Towards the bottom of you
I chewed on the room temperature
grinds of what gave you
flavor in the first place.
I left you this way,
with no desire
to order another one.
One of the greatest pains in life
is that no coffee stays hot forever,
at least not for me.

Now I'm just the fly
on the rim of her
chardonnay glass.
A tourist everywhere I go.
It brings me back to
that apartment in the South Bronx,
an onion disguised as an apple,
an old boy who no longer trusts
the weatherman.
I leave the lights on when I'm gone
so that coming home feels less lonely.

The days pass
under feet
like cracks in the sidewalk
under pressure
by the traffic jam
of cognition ants
that echos with
the engines on 8th.
They slip our minds
like hair
down the shower drain,
minuscule things that
we can lose
because they seem so
dispensable.
But the old man still sings,
the crows still fly north
toward downtown,
and far away galaxies
still waltz,
out in the cold
and empty,
before you,
now,
and long after.
It is a ****** kind
of gorgeous,
where even the eyes
of a stranger
can help us
to thaw.

The world is burning
it lights the tip of this spliff
spiffy satisfaction is what we want
what is the market price for that?
And so tied tight and hard to get undone
are the sun and the moon,
midnight and noon,
me and you,
soon,
maybe we don't sleep tonight.

Just like the gun
and the bullet,
we were made for each other
but ended up
so **** far
apart.