•  Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation

• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?

• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts

• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty

• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know

• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now

he's a hangman's noose, with long fingers unfurling the tethers of his rope on her throat
shards of shame ***** the back of her eyelids until the tears stream down her cheeks
and he grips beneath her hips, uneven nails biting into
untouched, porcelain flesh with ferocity
drawing blood that would take a week to heal
and a nausea that will never stop rising

never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness

She watches them together,
as her breath stops with a catch,
and her heart aches, pulled by tethers
made of love and lonely sadness.

He laughs. Briefly she can't help
but think that they'd be better.
She watches by herself,
and slowly drives herself to madness.

When my Juliet calls, and my soul is weary.
I briefly fold, and long to follow that path I can't attempt.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and let our embrace shake the stars,
But the will to live wins over a world without a Capulet

It's the hardest decision that I'm never going to get,
because the path of least resistance is
the path I can't accept.
It's because my life is never ready.
The poison's on her lips already.
Hands are shaking, Blade is steady.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart,
and gift to me this path of sweet regret.

      Romeo is cold and weary,
     Oblivion is singing cheery
                 Songs for
            what he longs for
             and the night;
             and the blade
              shines alight
with blood so cold and wet.