my heart alights like a glow stick whenever I see you
yet,
glow sticks must break to achieve their fluorescence
and a glow stick last only if for a night

a slight in our daily schedule
a slip in the synchronicity
a slur in spoken word

until they are left behind, the carcasses of the party

as you elapse into adulthood
and I relapse in this primeval state of living

what will it be like without you walking my hallways of thought?
as one has harbored themselves like a hermit in my ribcage
will the pressure of you be relieved with your passing?

or will the infinite ache
of those who have been driven apart by circumstance
fill the hole in my chest?

She is an atlas
her eyes deepest
and darkest Africa

Unfolded I hold her
tracing the source
of her diamonds and gold

In search of the motherload.

mr death's blue eyed girl
night falls and she's in the bathroom
again with a pocket of pills and her will
to live faltering or shivering in the corner*

the vintage radio plays and she's
stuck in the sweltering heat alone
in the kitchen, hero left her the victim
and she's bending silver spoons with her mind

saying she knows what he's thinking
a psychic or an unbearable palm reader
and she's suddenly taking off again
perhaps some other guy will pick that will to live up

with his nimble fingers and lovely wrists
she was the victim, but she's feeling lifted
again into small fragile scopes of life

letting loose old chains
you and your wry laughter
defeated by the day old machines
of life and their constant clogging

time's hands tear into spring
nail first, peeling off the light constricting canopy
twisting barbwire off delicate skin
strangling you on a couch from hell

wake up to the smell of bourbon
and dead roses - so pretty
your lashes creating the shadows
on your gaunt cheekbones, and your name is Soul