someday you'll wake up
from a nightmare unprecedented.
you'll sit up straight,
gasp and stare in the darkness
like it's going to swallow you whole.
but then I'll mumble
half asleep beside you
and I'll reach out for you
and say, "lay down baby,
I'm here and you're okay."
and you'll smile, fears gone
I'll turn over, place my arms
around your body
that had previously been quaking.
I'll hold you and kiss your neck
my warmth right beside you
and we'll fall asleep again.

someday I'll wake up
to the smell of brewing coffee
and I'll get out of bed
head down to the kitchen
to find you at the table
a mug of tea ready for me
and you with your coffee.
I'll go over to the counter,
spoon honey into my tea
while you hug me from behind
and pull me into bed again.

someday we'll wake up
and lay in bed all day
I'll ruffle your hair
you'll slide your hands up my nightshirt
and we'll stay intertwined
while rain falls in sheets
while we're under sheets
and the rest of the world
deals with the world's problems
and whenever I try
to get anything done
you'll pull me close
and I'll kiss you again.

someday they'll wake up
with your hair and my eyes
my nose and your smile
and their little feet
will stomp down to the kitchen
you with your coffee
me with my tea
us with our pancakes
and our own little family.

"life isn't all sunshine and cuddles,"
he said as he pressed the burning cigarette to
the small of her back.
"you have to learn your lesson"
the milky white of
her imperfect skin
marred by the ugly black
of all of his sins.
"life is about *** and revenge,"
he said as he took everything she had.

things could be different though
and soon they were
there was a new man now
he brought her flowers
and caressed the scarred small of her back
he kissed her body and left the choices up to her
she loved him dearly but told him
with soft, harsh lips:
"you have to learn your lesson,"
and her sins became his.

"Tell me what it's like," he started
unsure of where it would go.
She took the right turn up at
the graveyard and said to him, her hands
on the steering wheel
drumming away to a Led Zeppelin song
"To be so close to death, you mean."
her voice was like matter-of-fact static
on a frequency too far away
for attachment.
"No," his voice wavered
and his eyes focused on a fixed point
somewhere above the mausoleum
that loomed before them
as he said with brevity
"What's it like to be back?"

I looked for a good morning
under a sky that didn't feel right
the meteor showers can't end
just because night has
and daylight has broken
broken out
of the chrysanthemum cage
the starry starry night
had put in place
and when my good morning eclipsed
into a wilted noon
I decided to wait
wait out the day
and it slipped right by me
so I looked for a good night
and the night wasn't
as starry starry
as it had been before
but the meteors were still there
awaiting my delicate eyes
and when I saw the trail of fire
I knew I'd receive
a beautiful good morning.

she smelled like clementines
the year the winter became floral
and when the springtime cropped
up skeletons of flowers
she couldn't use her imagination and
they told her it was fine they
told her that was that
and this was this
and it was time for the winter
to stop blooming
who had ever heard of a floral winter, anyway?
so she packed away those
ideas of flight
and the winters became poison ivy
winding, wrapping themselves
spineless but wicked
around and around until they rested there
right there in her chest
choking her heart.

"There's an art to it."
She says as she
flicks the end
of her cigarette
into the dirt.
"To what?"
She sighs,
grinding the cigarette
into the ground
with the heel
of her shoe.
"Destroying yourself."

he's asked for
a cigarette

but he doesn't smoke
turns out his pockets
and is shot dead
in a pool of misplaced caution
tinged red
veins expelling
voices garbling
until there is darkness
because there is no heaven
and there is no hell

there's only the misplaced caution
of a man who never smoked
in a world of gunpoint and demand.

I am in love with the white walls of potential
white walls, white walls
I am in love with the sky and all the little doves
white, like the white walls
stark but never gray
I am in love with things I'll never be
the white vision of rage
before it is stained red
always searching for the walls
but only the white ones, never just gray
I am in love with the clouds
but not just the sky, never just the sky.

maybe it was worth it and maybe when I first saw it coming I saw something less like an ending and more like a beginning because you know, for the astronomical chances to completely align, once when they called for the end of the world, and a second time when he crossed my path like the broken revolution of Pluto, is to call for a complete set of anomalies to ensue and maybe that wasn’t it at all maybe it was just a crazy twist of fate that was meant to teach the universe that you can have what you want but it comes at a price because even when the world wasn’t ending there was no such thing as forever and shortening people’s forevers makes for a whole lot of desperation maybe that was it maybe it was desperation but no matter what it really was, I’m still here in this mess of ands and maybes that spin me around while the end of the world is hurtling towards us at so many light years an hour an hour an hour of time I don’t have time anymore but I’ve got to tell him I love him I’ve got to tell him I love him I’ve got to tell him I lo

he kissed her eyelids
soft like pale butterfly wings
and she woke up
with a cold space beside her
the memory of those butterfly kisses
still fresh on her face.

I tried to talk to caterpillars once
and when they didn’t talk back I thought
there was something wrong with me
but when they finally replied I
knew
there was something wrong with me
and maybe I tried to fix it
or maybe I didn’t
either way,
the fuzzy caterpillar voices
never stopped
and I tried my hardest
to avoid the tomato plants
skirting around them
in the garden of my thoughts
but there’s poison ivy around the edges
and I’m sick of the rashes
of losing it all to a half-bloomed rose
to the promise of growth
and the reality of a frozen season
of leaves being eaten
by the caterpillars
when I could’ve told them to stop.