Tiptoe on eggshells
yolk spills onto the floor
where she soon follows.

She's a wind-up toy
spins like a top
unravels at the seams.

You can't fix what's wrong with her.

She loved his work calloused hands,
the way he tipped his hat to strangers,
and his rain-soaked kisses.

She hated sweet tea,
collard greens,
and the word, 'Y'all.'

They packed up and moved to the South.

Hidden in the ashes
a crumpled heap emerges
black and bruised,
limping blindly through
a cloud of smoke.

Consumed by her own
self-induced disaster
she chokes on
what could've been
and what's left.

Through the fog
an errant memory
pierces her heart.

He asks, "Would you?"

She closes her eyes
before she falls again
and through the pain, says,
"Not even if you were the
last man on Earth
because
these things always end badly."

I always laugh at inappropriate times
there's never any reason or rhyme
why I'm fashionably late
and can't stand to wait
or why, as close as we are,
your nearness seems far.

Had we met before this day,
what would fate say?

That I'm always
a little too little, too late.

Holding onto forgotten memories
fragmented by time,
tucked away neatly at first
and then haphazardly
as if they're less important,
you revisit them like old friends,
careful not to stir any pain still
clinging to the deepest parts of you.
Even as the pieces crumble, they fall
into place like a puzzle -
the worried corner of a dream,
a water-stained wish,
distorted faces behind shattered hope.
When you sift through the remains,
not much is salvageable in the cobwebs
your mind has weaved.

When dawn
breaks through the room
gently greeting us with
endless possibilities, my
heart wakes.

Curling waves
and peacock feathers
swirl on my
tongue, move through
my blood at dizzying rates
distorted at dawn.

The door shut in her face
another day out of place
she sits alone inside herself.

Behind those electric blues
no one has a clue
what storm she's brewing.

It's time to seek shelter.

Colossal mistakes on a bed of regret
leave a bitter taste
speared by a forked tongue.
Wash down the fact
you're bound to run out of breath
when your fantasy fades
into deep nothingness.

My
life is
so steeped in
reality
I don't even have time for fantasy.

I'm nonplussed
by the ease
in which you divide
your heart,
subtract any decency,
and carry yourself
with less than the whole person
you could be
if you didn't equate
a lack of intimacy
with someone else's
borrowed time.
You degrade yourself,
making multiple errors
instead of getting to the root
of the problem.
You don't understand my quizzical stare?
Let me sum it for you.
You're on a slippery *****,
unable to function.
Nothing you do adds up.

I'm not much of a cook
and he doesn't much care
as long as I wear his favorite apron
and a smile.
I've ruined plenty of dinners
taste testing from his lips,
adding too much spice,
and setting off the smoke alarm.
He prefers a long simmer to a
fast boil, and we pour on more
Italian seasoning.

I see the fire burning
feel the flames lick my body
I hear the thunderous roar
taste the acrid smoke in my lungs
I smell the rotten flesh
of compromised character
your skewed senses
melt and drip
into molten hurdles
I leap over,
running,
until I cough out your carcass.

Darkness morphs into a sliver of light
opens on a stained glass kaleidoscope -
patterns shift, rise, fall like we did last night,
I'm in over my head.  Throw me a rope.
Dangle me just at the edge, hang on tight
an empty vessel lost, if not for hope.
Secrets crash on a shore of skeletons,
bones picked clean by circumstance undone.

Fingers trace your spine,
feel the strength there,
the ripple of pleasure
as we turn another page,
savor the words etched
on each other's lips,
enter a new chapter.

Ideals conjured
from unrealistic dreams
shapeshift in the dark
***** in the shadows
carve indelible
wounds
on your heart,
your soul
until you realize
you're all alone
out of step
out of time.

Tentative truths pass through your lips

a heavy shift in silence follows
your eyes

always give you away

bending your fragile tale

under heavy scrutiny
your cheeks

flush crimson

and I watch

your nose

grow.

Coffee brewing
reminds me of your
bittersweet, coffee-tinged
kisses.

Rain beating
a steady rhythm on the roof
takes me back to those
gentle movements

when we seemed
as one

when each kiss
breathed life into the next,
every touch
was a moment
lost in you.

Now and then,
in equal parts,
your memory burns
and soothes.

Without warning
my mind is hijacked,
gnarled fingers
wrap their frozen tips around
the bone deep ache inside.

Shiver against
long days, even longer nights.

Brilliant blue skies replaced
with gray mists, needle-like
in precision.  Sharp points of
awareness beneath
death's grip.

Rise against
right now.  Breathe.

I held on
to every golden word
that spilled from your lips
until your malfunctioning mouth
frayed my heart
and I called disconnect.

Dusk
falls
on our
decision
to call it a night
and to remain indecisive.

not with dull edges
or even vibrant colors
but with a constant pull -
a craving
to breathe again,
to remember what it was
she didn't want to forget,
where just beyond her reach
was forever,
and it was enough
just to breathe again.

She packed only what she needed.  Too bad he didn't fit in her luggage.

While I wage war
on this cracked concrete
of my resolve.

Hold it open

I'll step in
to gauge the distance
before we fall.

Hold on tight

So that we might
not trip over our
own defenses.

And these two hearts
clinging to hinges.

Shadows show me the lines we draw
between right and wrong.
Black and white.
They linger long after the white hot heat
of our romance
to drown us in conscience filled dreams
that wake us, breathless, and wanting more.

Sticky yellow squares
float in the air,
giving purpose
to what not to miss
with their good intent
of what you don't want to forget.

A day's worth of notes
of things you wrote
scribbled across
thoughts not lost
firmly held in place
just in case.

If truth be told
wandering souls
find just what they need
if only it leads
straight to
you and me.