i
am
so
washed
out,
but
i'm
still
not
*clean.

Eulogy singer
Blood bullets explode in my throat
Blood, ink, rusted piano keys
Church pews and surgical scars
Christmas feels like crying
I hope I don't die in Italy
Drinking ink on the bathroom floor
Everything was, but wasn't
It was white shoes, but off white, really
In love, but not
Warm water in the garage
A champagne bottle and a butcher knife
We drank in the streets, and no one got caught
Blood bullets on Main Street, everyone was drops of old beer
That time of year
Bullet holes in the headboard
Used, abused, we don't get to choose
Christmas felt like joy or melancholy or pine or something

we belong together
maybe as friends,
maybe as lovers
but god do i hope it's the latter

is it possible to miss the potential?
to yearn for what never was,
the possibility;
what seemed to be coincidental?
the passing by of two minds, two souls,
intertwined,
or a skew by my perception;
hope overlaying my scribbled fragment of you,
what you could be,
what you may be, underlying a connection.
by constellation you were made,
shaped by stars,
away from vein;
coated, in folk music and denim
leaving me to wonder,
what caramelized your eyes
to brown & delicate thunder
deep, soft soil; richest out from under.

my body
is a cry for
help
with hands
as full as
weekly plans
with eyes like
waterfall
in a summer
with mouth as
hopeful as
sunrise
in the rain
empty the
eye sockets
pour the
world into
them - the lover
of surfaces,
masks - the hiding
place

worthless beautiful night sky
full of stars, red and blue
perfect lemon moon
so close

pink attire, purple face
optimistic words, dry tongue and pale lips
shadow in the dark
heavy

floral fabrics
ribbons for causes
statistics
heart, heart, heart

hollow