I never forgot,
I could never forget,
Because you were and always will be my morning coffee,
You are cold hands and finger shaped bruises,
Two sets of bony hands intertwined,
You were just as much a part of me as you were in love with him,
You were every spider web thirsting and holding on to the morning dew,
The girl I loved was two bodies trying to fit in a space only meant for one,
You were beautiful,
Especially to me.
But you left,
You left cracks in the concrete,
You left your clothes unfolded,
You left all of your keys under the door,
Even the most durable flowers couldn't grow in the emptiness you left,
Please know I still watered them every day,
Even after you became the white paint pretentiously slapped over the graffiti we once painted,
A sea of green and blue,
You became everything we hated,
A soldier with few words,
I just couldn't fix you,
I cannot force the sun back into your eyes any more than I can tear my heart from my chest,
No,
That's something only you can do,
My impossible girl,
The only part of war that could hold my heart.

She had a thousand faces,
Each hung and turned gracefully on a rack,
A rack that only she had the strength to balance,
And each of her faces spoke in a different tongue,
But when all thousand voices synchronized the harmony mimicked that only produced by love,
With a lavender scent and a porcelain face,
Royal embers burned in a powdery rage,
For behind every cracked white faith,
Is suspended a hidden strength.

What is your favorite holiday?
It was a question asked frequently,
Yet never could I provide a simplistic answer,
For wearing a mask had become an every day occurrence some time ago,
And my wallet was left dead after being assaulted by frequent gifts year round,
And I suppose the hardest part of answering,
Was that they did not know you,
They had not awoke to your fidgeting in bed,
And knew nothing of your never-ending warmth,
With sweet embraces and smooth words,
Every morning spent drifting in between dreams,
Waking up next to you became my favorite holiday,
And I suppose the season has died without you here.

You crumbled like a corpse underneath the facade of fresh rose petals,
Lavender pressed finger prints,
Like warm blood on cool cracked lips,
You are not in love,
But you are on it,
Like a drug that must be snorted,
Too sour to be swallowed,
And too hot to be inhaled,
Too good to be real,
And too much like a dream to be held.

The words that existed my mouth were nothing like poetry,
Doused in cheap liquor and a series of muttered sighs,
These words were not love,
They weren't even lust,
They were nothing more than the feeling of emptiness coupled with your embrace,
An action that failed to feel ***** as it once did,
But still managed to reek of desperation,
This was not poetry,
And we a far from art.