The best of my poetry wasn't written down,
Rather, was spoken to empty rooms,
The stinging silence pregnant,
Each syllable a fleshy womb
Creating, and recreating, your
Image in my mind.

You were glad to-night: and now you’ve gone away.
Flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed;
But as you fall asleep I hear you say
Those tired sweet drowsy words we left unsaid.

Sleep well: for I can follow you, to bless
And lull your distant beauty where you roam;
And with wild songs of hoarded loveliness
Recall you to these arms that were your home.

I feel bits of you
in my bones,
did you mean to leave
so much behind?

Did you mean
to call, to walk,
to speak, to drive
to where you’d pick me up

late at night?

Did you mean to lie,
or was it just an idea
at the time?

Would you have still
said what you said? 

If you knew
I’d still feel
bits of you
but they aren’t you

anymore.

you told me i couldn't be anything
so i pulled up the burnt ashes
reviving my broken bones
and turned myself into something
you would want.

-hours later....

conceptcollection

stills only my heart
a perception of
both green
and forever red
in water reflected
on the table spilled
as the bowl cracks
splinters through
the half eaten flesh