I tried to call out to you
in my dream last night.
But you were lost
behind a fixation
I couldn't re-imagine.

Now I'm looking
at the way I'm coping
hoping to somehow
ghostwrite my way out
of this incessant grief.

We can't just spill loss
into a letter and hope
by some chance
they read it over our shoulder.

I am foreshadowing
someone else's demise.

I've spent a lot of time losing this year,  
and somehow this was the most difficult.

Somehow the idea
is worse than
the reality

Somehow these words
will not be enough for you.

Asking you to stay
sounds selfish,
but you leaving seems the same.

I can't tell if
this is a poem
for my best friend that died-
or to the one who tried to.

I guess it's both.
I guess I am both.

Somewhere between grieving
too late and too early
in the same breath.

Loss feels so much more
than empty,
I am a tea kettle
  with bad metaphors
left on too long
so I am just screaming.

This is an empty house-
no one can hear me.

My blood boils over
with emotions
never taken off the back burner.

This chest caves in
and I cave into
the mindset that
this scenario
isn't imagination.

This is real life
and death isn't
just a concept for me anymore.

It is object permanence.

My lips would roam
not only on your lips
but down to your neck
and your thighs.

Will you blame me
for missing the times
I get to kiss you?

My dear,
I'm a mess
but I miss you.

i wish that i could love you,
but it seems that i can't allow myself that gruesome of a demise

i wish that i could love you,
but whenever i think of you and i and you granting me a title,
just to forget my name and remember their's once it floats off of their tongue when you ask them how they're doing,
i remember that i cannot love you

i wish that i could love you,
but i am so content with the feeling of my chest at rest
and i don't wish to feel an ache if i were to catch you in the arms of another
it is so simple to leave you be, so simple to detach myself emotionally

i wish that i could love you,
but if i give you every part of me, i can see it now
the blood of my heart in your hands
the ripped muscle of the ***** wrapped around your fingers
the picture of you and them interlocked, mirrored in my eyes
as tears float on my cheeks
and now i know

now i know that i cannot love you
so please do not ask

Isn't mystery and excitement what we all want?
It's what I want

I want to laugh till my tummy hurts,
Kiss till I can't feel my lips,
Fight till all we have to do is make love

I want a piece of passion every day,
A piece of love,
And a piece of chocolate

I long for power and loss of power,
Games, but still safety
I long for openness and honesty,
Authenticity and approval,
***, lust and pleasure,
Love, passion and betrayal

I want opposites, yet the same
I want both, and still just one
I want him, but her too
If I'm making any sense, is up to you.

An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.

Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins  who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.

But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.

For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.

Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same

You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral *******”.

But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.

The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.

And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.