When we became more,
We were hip bones and scars.
We were late nights, bottles of wine,
Long hands pressed to my side.
When it ended, I watched the world burn.

As always
I'm deliciously jealous
looking
at your profile:
the shadows of other women
flutter through your
cheeks,
and I
do not care,
but I do
in more ways than you will ever understand.

He was everything I loved about all of them.
A motley of colors and shades,
beards and razor blades.
The soft thud of a heartbeat,
The flutter of fingers,
Piano keys.
He still didn't want me.

Breathing
heavy like the gap between our bodies,
air thats leaking out the sides,
flesh pressed against flesh,
the pressure building in our spines.

Tension
tight like the space between our thighs,
hips inverted,
lips pressed against mine,
the pressure building in our spines,
the pressure building in our spines.

I clung to your bed sheets
sinking claws into claws,
filling voids with piercing words.
Tacky white glue
always dries on permanent.
Forgotten paper hearts
tear so well.

I am a frivilous liar.
They fall from my lips,
buttons from a blouse,
sprinkles from your birthday cake.

How we bloom
and who we become,
we rise from our bones,
and grow like bulbs.
We are products of each other,
beautiful vines
intertwined.

Just this once
became nights spent
lying spine to spine. 
And now you have her:
a skeleton that matches,
more or less.
I'm left with what was
never spoken,
nothing
But convenient.

The past has such heavy weight
like sunken ships
and ancient cement barricades,
so permanent
even in their irrelevancy.

Sometimes things happen that check you,
Pulse returning
To something, somewhere. 
A sharp inhale of breath,
A year bloomed in stale water,
And I'm just half glad it's not me
You're reproducing with.

From before the gravel
ground too deep
From before a year
crunched beneath my feet
and sighed,
I can't remember what you said.
Now it's gone,
soaked with another man's
words pretending to be mine
and thrown out with the newspaper.