i have been scared of death
since the day i learnt i was alive;

blue ***** drops rise
from the heart of the ocean
reaching for the forbiden place,
reaching for brightest star
that will bring their end.

for them we are as irrelevant
as an orange cloud in a storm;
the raindrops which fall on our faces
are pure and cold, but carry
the gold.

you ever just not know what to say? write? feel?
but then your skin feels him—almost, truly, feebly
and breathing
it was one kiss but i still...
he still loves me—
he doesn't love me
i still... i still
do you remember my red sweater?
the one i wore that day before leaving you?
i'd hold it to my face—as if to conjure the smell of you
and your handwriting's beautiful,
i don't care that it's bad, or that you
said it was
i still... i still vacuum the excess
but it never escapes
little jewels
little dust molecules
and little morsels of almost-nothing
that cling to my hair like snow
i still... i still...

Sometimes . . .

broken bones

and

broken hearts

don't grow

back straight