I fain would write a love song
but I leave all song to the dawn
and as for love?
You were loved before all dawns.

where every poem is a mime
every dance a star
each word a silence
the silence music
you will see the clown in me
articulating love.

I create my own jealousy,
       and load my own gun,
I make my own bed,
       I never shoot
and
      I never sleep,
I’m a stagnancy
of
imperfections,

the cement is dry now,
I’m sorry,
but you can't leave

your voice is your own
make sure
the words you speak
are yours also

She drank her coffee too
sweet
and drew herself
to the smell of new
pencil shavings,
like a pupil dilates in light,
telling itself to expand,
to drink up
more
and
more.

She fumbled
on old strands of her
self rising like mug steam
from poetry
she wrote only three months ago.
Wide-eyed,
reading "when
one leaves,
the past is a fetish"
in rounded, running letters
bubbling up over each other -
a gravy she found
herself constantly stirring.

And sunsets,
dashed with pink syrup,
are a passion
('passion' being her
'word' - a skin-colored tattoo,
a branded prayer, an incanted torch)
Sunsets.
Sour golden orange laced
with strawberry wine.
Bittersweet.
Passionate.

Her.

I grasp at the sound of my voice-
try to hold it between my fingertips
but it slips away.
I try screaming but nothing comes out.

I long for the days
when my hands weren't so fragile.

My heart is heavy in my chest again-
my lungs don't have the space to breathe
no, not anymore.
I am clinging to the idea
my heart will lessen
and become cold once again.

I long for the days
when my heart was open and empty.  

I just want to breathe-
want to feel like my chest isn't on fire.
Put me out.
Water me down with your words
and slice open my chest
with your razor tongue.
Make this heart stop breaking-
and weighing down everything.

This is all your fault
so it's up to you to fix it.
Eat the words you said
because I'm having trouble
finding mine.

I long for the days
when my words weren't at war.

When you left-
you took my ability to write with you.
All I could muster were small sentences
and they never made sense.
Without you-
nothing really makes sense.
I'm trying to rack my brain
about you.
Wrap my brain
around you.
Still just confusion.

I long for the days
when my mind was just a blank slate.

Sometimes I wish I had never met you-
stopped answering your texts
stopped waiting for your reply
stopped letting you paint
my smile on for me.
I am my own artist
but somehow you had better tools.
More colors to choose from.
I was just so black and white-
you were just so rainbow.
But now you've became the storm.
It's hard to breathe in the midst of a hurricane.

I long for the days
when my hands weren't so fragile.
I long for the days
when my heart was open and empty.
I long for the days
when my words weren't at war.
I long for the days
when my mind was just a blank slate.

Nostalgia, your oldest friend.
You can't remember her favorite color.
Or even the sound of her voice.
But you remember the fondness she brings.
Until she's ringing your neck
with all of this past regret and you cannot breath again.
Help me breath again.