Sometimes I wait
for daylight to break
but the state of my heart
crawls melancholic, dragging itself upon the cold hard floor
and it drips
sticky like honey
this evenings passage
leaves me mostly aloof
and often adrift.

Your touch is like
the flutter
of butterfly wings
ghosting on my skin,
setting off an explosion of fireworks
causing ripples in time
and tsunamis to form
halfway across the world.

Real life isn't always perfection
Often it's nervously bitten digits and cracked nail polish.

Real life isn't always photogenic
Mostly it's oily faces and adolescent outbreaks.

Real life isn't perfumed or pretty
Sometimes it's pit stains and bad hair days.

Real life isn't a page in a glossy magazine
Airbrushed and edited to curveless perfection.

Real life isn't about salads and diet coke
It's more like ice cream and pizza at 3 am and fat days spent in yoga pants feeling sorry for yourself.

Real life isn't always smooth sailing
Rather it's more like "I hate you" one minute then "I love you" the next then "shut up, go away" right after that.

Real life isn't fantasy
It's the 9-5 grind and knowing you'll never make enough to afford all the things you want.

Real life is never how you expect it to be
So when you tell me that I'm beyond perfect and that you don't deserve me . . .

What do you expect me to do . . . degrade myself so I'm imperfect for you?

Today I walked past our spot
under the Sycamore where we used to lay
and all at once, those memories
of you and I
came rushing back like a flood.

I watched as they set the skies on fire
and the shadows cast were a golden hue
the violent winds danced with our silhouettes
gamboling in the shade of that lover's tree.

In that moment
you took my hand,
your incendiary stare igniting desires
setting fires
as you cast your handprint on my soul.

All the rivers have run dry
and all the bridges have been burnt to the ground
someone buried the hatchet ages ago
everyone knows but me
won't you turn around, you may see
a whirling mass of rolling ash
and there's me, standing solitary in the enveloping plumes
with hammer and tools in hand
no one told me you can't ever fix a broken heart.

I will never stop saying this. Just in case somehow the wind carries my message to you. I don’t pretend to think you’d ever stop to listen but just maybe, maybe on one of those occasions you’ll have your guard down. And over the din of the music and noise you might hear me. Or maybe in the silence of the night. In between the wake and sleeplessness. I’ll be there like a shadow of something in the past. I will never stop saying this.

Without my glasses I feel like I am running on a beach of diamonds.