dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

Staring out at the bridge
Lit like the city it connects.
Patches of snow scattered,
The city is frozen in time-
Still and silent.

                                                        It's hard to medicate a broken heart
                                                                           When the medicine is gone.

The spot where we stood,
Your eyes bright like city lights,
Empty now-
The magic followed you everywhere.

                                                                     Holding a picture frame
                                                 Containing smiling faces and empty spaces

Winter's claws gripping at my cheeks,
I stare and amaze
At how the moon, the stars
Persist.

                                                                    I've lost sober sanity,
                                                                   I'm craving drunken clarity.

I wrote a story-
The Bird With A Broken Wing-
And his youth transformed
A raven into
A hummingbird.

                                                                              Liquid comfort holds me
                                                                                       To solid ground.

Trapped in a monument
Dedicated to what was not
Insured.

                                                                      Motivated by haunted illusions,
                                                                            I stand and stumble as
                                                            The bridge glistens off in the distance.

I return home,
Greeted by the sound
Of ghosts I used to know,
I used to love.

                                                                            Standing on the bridge
                                                                                  Where we departed.
                                                                             Crunching metal piercing
                                                                                      my memory,
                                                                                   Two lifeless bodies
                                                                                have consumed me.
                                                                                Staring out at city lights-
                                                                           Pretending they're her eyes-
                                                                                  I fall, I sink
                                                                                And watch as dark waters
                                                                                     Turn off the lights.

It has almost been a year
how can time go so fast
but yet so slow.

A girl bathes in the sunlight in a
Bright red bikini - the kind of red of some lipstick that
caught your attention at the mall.
**** the men passing her by, absorbing
every detail of her body.
Few have felt her touch, that
glorious touch. The touch I’ve grown to
hate with everything
I keep bottled up inside. She likes to play
jokes on a hopeful heart; stealing
kisses from the
lips of a boy, still learning to be a
Man- an idea my father
never taught me, not because of a lack of
opportunity, but because he never figured it out himself. She  
played my mind like the piano keys she used to
quell the
reoccurring thoughts in her mind: those of
self-abuse and insecurities.
To feel wanted and loved, she
uses the attention of those staring eyes as she bathes in ultra
violet rays, questioning if the
water is a comfy kind of cold, much like the
X’s and O’s placed lovingly at the bottom of the note that ended
years of dedication, years of forgetting our uncertainties.

Zero degrees couldn’t be colder than that.