I see people float on like leaves.
Gliding, soaring, humming about,
not a care in the world.
Glorious reds and yellows,
triumphant, even in the knowledge
that they will all end.
And so I drift along as well,
but not with a whisking of the wind like others.
I slowly make my way in the
murk of a puddle, rolling through
mud and the accumulated pollutants of
what ifs and slow eating depression.
What I would give to fly.
What I would give not to feel.

I am glass,
sharp edged and *****,
offering reflections
or even visions.
I am glass,
inanimate and still,
giving scars and taking scratches.
I am glass,
fragile and careful,
put only where it's safe.
I am glass,
receiving buffers and renewals,
shining brightly and glistening
in a new sun.
But not too brightly,
sometimes reflecting no light at all.
Because your fingerprints are always
embedded in my surface.
I am glass.

First a silence,
   drifting gently blue.

Maybe a brief prodding,
   rekindling bright yellow.

Inevitably a forgetting,
   resting ever clear.

He stayed by the bed.
He waited.
As she spurned
love,
traced her fingernails
on collars and firm
chests,
chasing a carnal satisfaction,
he waited.
Through crowds she waded,
each stuttered step
in those sinful heels
drove stilettos through his
heart.
He waited.
Then she finally came back.
After all of his waiting,
she journeyed home
to stay at his side.
So he stood up and left.

The force of habit
drives me
to ****** noses
and
cracked ribs,
crushes me
down into the
dust,
grinds my
bones
down into
brittle sticks.
The force of habit
drives me
to drown,
to seek
sadness,
avoid the sun.
Why?