and here I found myself
in complete radio silence.
You're the soft humming static,
the deafening silence
as soon as I close my car door.
There's a certain kind of peace here,
though what I have is emptiness;
what I have is nothing.
You're the cigarette in my fingers at 3 am,
if only I hadn't quit.
You're the portrait that I'd create in awe,
if only I knew how to draw.
You're every song and piece of poetry
that these hands will ever compose for months,
and even years,
and by the stars, sweetie,
do I know how to write.

I don't miss You
as much as I did a week ago;
I miss You more,
but not in the same way as love birds do
when la mia amata
just  
wasn't
the same anymore.
Do You know how love birds love?  
The pain of losing their loved one is so intense
that they cope with the loss
in self-destruction.
Do You know how love birds love?
They Love fully,

*even after Death

Am I still a Writer?
If I have already
lost
my motivation to write.

Am I still a Believer?
If all I once
believed
are now the reason
why I refuse to hope.

Am I still the girl with big nerdy glasses?
If all I can
ever see
is failures and hurt and sadness.

Am I still me?
If I already lost myself.

Sometimes
you
get used
too much,
and you
confuse bloodstains
for watermarks.
It’d be easier
to pretend like
nothing’s happening,
rather than admitting
that, deep down,
You were hurting.
And you were always hurting.
One minute
everything’s going fine
and the next
you’re breaking down;
tears flowing from your eyes
uncontrollable,
unbearable,
unyielding.
You
look me straight
in the eye,
and I knew
the words
even as
they caught in your lungs,
“Am I okay?”
I shook my head
and said not a word,
as you leaned in close.
In the silence,
I wondered:
Who was consoling whom?
If I close these eyes,
it would feel like
all of those other nights,
or perhaps,
this was still the same night.
And all the heartache,
and truth,
and yearning,
were seeking moonlight
once again.

-D.C.