The rising of a sun,
glossing over every dewy leaf,
and my heart had been broken by a thief.

Blue skies illuminated by a golden god,
proudly hanging above,
and she starts cursing love.

Gently wisped clouds gliding,
cumulating and growing,
and my happiness is slowing.

Eagles soar higher,
animals prowling low to the ground,
and she's above water yet still she's being drowned.

The sun is setting,
the sky starts crying,
and my poetry is dying.

The fight was long and drenched in pain,
Your strength was put to test.
You feared the grief would never end,
But now, my dear, come rest.

Your flickering tongue spiked with untruths,

A rose throttled by weeds and thorns,

The consuming darkness in the light;

A candle burnt into the eternal night.


Your mind a tangled pit of snakes,

Doors to opportunities now sealed,

An elegant dancer with blistered feet;

Drowning in torrents of whispered ink.


A slither of ice running through your heart,

A tarnished lock lacking a key,

Fragments of a crushed mirror;

Sewn apiece with angel's hair.


Your soul scorched to the pigment of death,

A glassy apple, decaying within,

Songbirds chant the sound of silence;

Tales untold, veiled poems.


Your eyes glazed by splintered glass,

Pure joy emitting as a strangled shriek,

A sweet kiss, laced with sweeter poison;

A fluttering heart locked within a fist.


Through your veins rush jets of flame,

The silver moon rains crimson droplets,

The radiant sun unleashes an ebony beast;

A star bursts into one million fragments.


You twirl upon a bed of nails,

Time's grain swept away by midnight's shore,

Wispy peaks gradually morph into shadows;

An embrace molds into a satisfying throttle.


Your brain, ribbons of foolishness and greed,

The universe crumbling within a mere breath,

The snow a shade of darkest ebony;

Rain misted with terminal acid.


Behind the facade of beauty,

Some things are not as they seem,

Under the masquerade of innocence;

Lurk twisted, deceiving dreams.

I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once startled into talk, the light syllables leaped for her,
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,

A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.

Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.

My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.

If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.

Through the thick mist
I saw her alone, whispering
Through the impregnable layers
I saw her soggy shoulders shaking
Through the mask
I saw the sad girl
Not the mellow girl in high heels
I saw her.

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.