at first glance,
they were strangers.
but they knew they'd be much
more than that to one another.

time flew as
the sparks grew,
nothing could
hold them apart.

their love was invincible,
until the day it wasn't.
their trust in one another
died with all the lies.

now their story is
just a distant memory.
their broken hearts mended
and learned to love others
the way they should have
loved each other.

We love the dead
more than ourselves
if only because
the dead sit still long
enough for our worship
and love to solidify
around them
ratifying them in the
cosmos
as a memory to rally around
because the people down here
on earth
are all moving too quickly
for love to stick
and the best moments
are the still ones
where we can wrap each other
up in the
honeyed cement
of our love
and just breathe
before the next thing comes
along and we have to go
dropping pieces
all along the way

There ain't a thing
here other than
ghost stories
for you to pack up
and tell over your
campfire made of
burning books
and love letters
leaving our memories
suspended in the smoke
and the carcinogens blend
and I don't know where I begin
or end
and I refuse to choke
because that's not what you
do at a campfire
to which you weren't invited
but it's a show for you
for your birthday
and the ghost stories
are there to tell you
to behave
because you are nothing
but a book
a story that is
oh
so
flammable

She asked me to write her
a poem
for Christmas
and so while I sit here
waiting for the car to warm up
I look at all the sets of
footprints in the snow
all going in different directions
going to different locations
some out of religious obligation
some out of unconditional love
and all I really know is that
I don't care where I go
as long as my footsteps in the snow
get to be alongside hers
from now until eternity

It's funny
how much poetry
I write
just because
I want someone
to talk to

You left love notes
Written along my ribcage
You said the spaces
Made perfect lines for poetry
My skin still remembers
Even after I washed you off

i do not make you happy
any longer
it is in your face
it is laced within your words that you speak to me
it is within your weary eyes that now look at me with such remorse and hurt
i no longer am
a source of your happiness
the realization of which
kills me slowly
but surely
i must go
because i can show you and tell you
how much i love you
yet it will never reach you
and i am so terribly sorry
for becoming a source of pain
but, i love you
and i, still do
so if you are free from me
you will bloom
into a happiness i could never obtain for you