This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
For it no longer echoes in my ears, in my fingers,
in my tongue. These endless digits fallen instantaneously
numb like a local anesthetic or winter basement nights
alone in the dark.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
It's melodic tones and overtures, the way it wraps
around words like my hands around your curves.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
And how I fed on it like the word of God.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.

I'm feline in my approach
slender-sleek and silent
footsteps like ghosts
on stairwells and whispers
in your ears.

I have nine lives
and I've wasted them
all stalking you
through concrete
jungles and labyrinthian
words and feelings.

"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"

I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.

Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.

Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.

Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.

And you can't honestly
expect me to bite
my ******* tongue
until the blood soaks my
shirt. I'm tired of being
the ******* pawn
in your ******* game
of chess. I'm tired of
being sacrificed and
thrown to the side.
I'm sick and *******
tired of your game

These are the words
you wish you'd spoke
out loud when she
shoved her tongue
in your mouth.

Guttural screams
that force the veins
to the surface of
that porcelain skin.
Cast to be broken
in my arms like
every single note
that pours out of that
******* busted stereo.

And since you're not by my side
the pages remain as blank as my stare.

Wish I knew
just what it felt
like to have
everything
figured out
just
the
way
you do.

But my ideas fragment
and my sentences crumble
like secrets whispered
in the basement dark.