i haven't written in months.
i'm terrified of prying out
the demons in my solar plexus
and birthing them into something
as tangible as ink against paper.

the things that i miss, they would
have me shaking in my metaphorical boots.
things like your socks on my floor,
or your words hanging like ornaments
in the sunlight above my bed.

the things that i can never get back,
like lost time and fleeting moments
of untouched beauty;
a look, a crippling smile,
the honesty of it all
could sink ships or worse.

ossifying words into something tangible,
a task fit for earthworms or kings,
leaves me wanting more, or maybe less,
waiting for something bone-deep
and overflowing with light.

someday it will find me.

on a slow night
in march- an
oil slick of a night,
the stars are dying quietly,
and the moon is subtly
watching the show.

there are unloved cats,
that once moved like nylon
and smiled into fireplaces,
crawling the perimeters of my thin
walls, as I sit dead center,
in a room that I cannot
call my own; where
the paint sticks to my
creations
and my words are swallowed
by empty wine bottles
and empty smiles set into
gilded jawbones.

and somewhere, somebody
just dropped dead in their kitchen,
while most people are
sleeping, or
chasing sleep, or
making love to their
plastic wives in a cold bed.
and somewhere, is
nowhere
to me.

i am ******* in air
and hoping for zyklon b,
grasping for keys that once
opened doors, but now,
i cannot cross the threshold,
anyways.
i am tripping over old knives
in the floorboards
and scolding my wide eyes
for their blindness.

i resign myself
to my decisions, because
there is nothing else
nothing else I can do.

i will rise in the morning,
cast aside the sun,
and hope that someday,
sutures will take hold
and i will see the ocean again.

crawling, creeping,
slowly shrinking back
into skin and nails
and bones and hair
and glistening ectoplasm.

backwards thinking because of
infinity eyes and a lovely
spine that was never there
to begin with.
and, I smile,
but its always your
smile

even when I tell myself
that the geraniums
cannot cry forever, or
that the sun can only eat
so many shadows
before it
explodes.

a prelude to insanity;
it slowly eats away at you
from the inside, tearing
down walls and wreaking havoc
on your psyche-

it is all of those daffodils
glaring yellow
unreachable,
and it is the sound of
an empty orchestra
in the middle of June  

it is the worms beneath
your stocking feet
and the sad birds
who haven't suffocated yet,

it is the wind chime
that sings for someone else
or the frequency
that carries the tune.

it is the sun, burning holes
in your clever retinas,
and all of those gracious porticoes
that you will never walk through.

it is the cats retching
in alleyways, and the ******
smiling across poorly lit
rooms, as they forget
to grow old.

it is all of the discarded books
with their broken spines,
it is smudged windows
and Neanderthal kisses.

it is the end of
something that was never
really yours to keep.

it is everything that you
wanted to love,
but couldn't
find the
time.