Roses are red,


                                                violets are blue,


                                                                                                 ******* *****.

White dwarf in a garden of eden
strolls along multicolored streetlights,
nodding at the spectrum manifesto
as lullabies meet and senses heed
henceforth the eve of madrugada.

Expansion was to blame,
as was the thesis I forgot to write
but mailed anyway.

The stamp failed to stick,
as did our hate,
despite our tries.

We abandoned ourselves,
left to roam alone hand-in-hand,
rolling around our own private land;

regarding the brilliance
of the unwritten plan.

The sky held no surprise
as the other galaxies evolved;
imagined no second thoughts
when we chose to dissolve.

You in the snow
The one nobody knows
Hot blood boiling at 20 below

You in the white
The one who owns the night
Numb limbs never felt so right

You of the undead
The one forever in my head
Resonant moons have long bled

You of the blissfully cold
The one yet to be correctly told
Snow imprints together growing old

You of the evermore
The one destiny washed ashore
Lost souls could not ask for more

I used to fantasize
about moving into
a small studio
apartment
in the city,
working odd jobs
to pay the rent
and support my
imaginary
alcoholism,
while writing
my fiction
and watching
the strangers
be strange.

I still do
sometimes.

There’s a quarter in your pocket,
a place to mourn her lost locket,
the silver heart chain over rusted,
fallen to that sea we once trusted.

In comes the pale man with his stale plan,
his hand like a ghost deceived on the coast;
he has his guitar and you know he’s come far
to spend those coins protected within your *****.

Gladly take your silver linings,
along with all your other findings,
at the bottom of a red purse in your grip.

All a part of the lead curse in your lips.

Like magnets,
we were drawn
in our fragments,
while complex ***
held our best intents,

even if you lost your belief,
despite me being a thief.

The man was me;
a pity you couldn’t see,
although I think you could,
and if not I wish you would.

The powder on my fingers
from the times I lingered
watching your chest move
in your dream groove.

I had to smile
in spite of myself,
all the while spent
and lacking discontent,
as I prowled out the door
and pawned multicolored spawn.

You, my dear, a surrealist;
me, I’m afraid, a realist;
you saw wonder clouds
while I slipped under crowds.

Your quarter fell in the machine
and I dialed a familiar routine,
while you sat by the phone
and continued to be alone.

in   stores

  now,

also
           in
                 vanilla;

RC Glow.

I fell in love
when love was lost;
always the hand
that comforts,
the muse you use
to bathe distress;
and the insects I dissect
to impress the wrinkles sprinkled
along your favorite dress;
forever repressed
are those depressed,
in a coffin shell
nailed
in a satin hell.

Through your
persistent assistance,
we formed an
ethereal resistance
with the stories
that we made,
talked of self-
proclaimed renegades;
fiction more accurate
than the non-;
a panoramic view
from beyond,
just outside
the rising tide
that we love
to criticize
when together,
wielding doubled-
edged blades.

In the chameleon-
esque plains
that we became
one in
our skin, our eyes,
our lies.

Truth was
of no importance,
with invention
a reliance
to our home-
remedied alliance;

the
only
way to
acceptance
being
in[our]sanity.