she was a whirling merry-go-round
  shooting through outer space like an
  intergalactic firework

he was a grey pond where
  no life could be sustained

she floated when she walked like a
  snowflake in a gentle breeze

he called her tinkerbell

she turned all she touched to love
  setting fire to fear and
  sprouting hope through the
    salt-and-pepper piles of ash

he needed her like a
  flower needs a bee

she brought goldfish to his grey pond
  and lily pads
  and cat tails
  and shades of color
    warm and cold
  planting and painting a plentiful
    landscape

he now had this
  entire ecosystem
  inside of him
    living and breathing
    growing

she stole his heart
  to replace it with a
  habitat for love and art

all feels like death
except...
drugs and *** feel like dying

i opened
the protein
shaker, huffed
it like
one huffs
glue, and
hissed, "this
wreaks like
someone took
all the
trash, stuffed
it in
a sauna,
and collected
the condensation
to soak
the shaker
in!" i
think i'll
use it
tomorrow morning.

a celestial calm
entwined with
daylight veins
of
madness
sitting silently
no occupation
but to
wind and wind
my
clockwork motor
madness
just to grin stupidly
as it
waddles
'round the room.

a second light comes crawling
this time through the window,
reminding me I survived
another night wading
through the fiery lakes of hell,
naked as my soul on a cool night with a new love.

everything else is so easy.
it's all relative, isn't it?
and this is my reference point,
my floor.

they give
their blessing
ask if
you're alright
not really
wanting to
know the
answer
because the
answer
might be
just what
they fear
and what
they fear
is that
they don't have the time
to hear
your cries
and not
be sunken
by them
they don't have the time
to lend
their compass
and not
lose their
own way
they don't have the time
to heal
a friend
a lover
a flesh-and-blood
who might
just feel
the same
as them
but
more gray
they have the time
to attend
a funeral

I peeled off her clothes like
the wrapper of a 100 Grand Bar
after a paleo diet
but still with the
tenderness
of critiquing a friend's
favorite song.

They floated to the floor like a
lost slip of paper
you wrote a phone number on

impacting with grace
inaudible over my
7-A.M.-residential-construction hammering heart.

Her figure was statuesque
in its rare elements of beauty,
and she felt right on my tongue
like the first time I tasted authentic
vanilla ice cream.

But she'd prefer gilato
and I'll have whatever she's having
so I hope I'm having nothing.