there are three blood stains on our sheets
in the shape of various european countries
and there is a dying white rose you bought me
last tuesday when i called in sick

it sits on the dresser, strangled by baby's breath
a single window, broken blinds
shoes tripped over every morning

when you stumble out of bed to go to class
and i stay and bask in the glow of your empty space in the mattress
wood floor scratched by broken glass
tubes of lipstick half-melted in august sun

the tv where we turned on carrie on a sticky summer night
and lay on top of the sheets
and couldn't remember how it ended

this is the room where i fell in love with you

in a small town in west virginia
in the mountains of secrets kept
where bodies disappear
memories are all that's left

the voices speak in whispers
the desperate cries are hushed
lives are left in disarray
hopeful hearts are crushed

a family gathers in silence
they hang their heads in doubt
on their search forever
for the body of Luke Stout

he still lives in their visions
"i swear i saw him pass"
even though he is still missing
his ghost will always last

This is a true story of a guy a knew from here in town. He is thought to be murdered, and there's a lot of stories of what really happened. The man that is said to have had him murdered, is in prison for having another guy from town murdered. The rumor is that he has said they will never find Luke's body. His family is still looking for him.

I was the daughter of winter
when you began to whisper
in my frigid ear. I lifted two
snowballed hands and chiseled
through the solid ice; bitter
words pierced the raw mist
surrounding me, but you were
not disarmed. I tried to stop the
thawing, dreamed lustily of a
rapidly approaching sleep,
that deep freeze and muffled
silence. You stayed, shivered,
and I was suffuse in tender
sunlight, for you were an
Indian summer, a falsehood
by very nature—false hope,
false promises, false warmth.
Your lilting birds and sultry
air enchanted—I was dizzy
and drunk, melting slowly.
You sang in the soft breezes,
danced frantically in the wake
of falling leaves, and swore
with each delicate blue sky:
It will always be this lovely!
But you were just a charade.
I was no more than a pool,
heated from the diminishing
glow of your fervor’s twilight,
and Autumn waited, patient,
as the mask finally slipped.

Because our talk was of the cloud-control
And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate,
Her tremulous kisses faltered at love’s gate
And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal:
But soon, remembering her how brief the whole
Of joy, which its own hours annihilate,
Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late,
And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul.

Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove
To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home
Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,—
They only know for whom the roof of Love
Is the still-seated secret of the grove,
Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.

And I am
so sorry
For loving you
as much as I did
It's just that
You were the only constant
In my ever-changing life
And no matter how hard
I pushed you away,
For some reason,
You were still there