Valentine's Day is approaching,
And as such there's a deadline encroaching.
Now don't get me wrong,
I would write you a song,
But this poem is taking so long.

It isn't lack of inspiration -
No, this time, my limitation
Is that I want only perfection from this.
No detail I'll miss,
And, how to describe our first kiss...?
I don't know how I'll finish on time
If I want each line to have perfect rhyme,
And for months I've been trying
And the time has been flying
As I change just one word at a time.

"Oh, I'll move that verse...
No, that made it worse."
It feels like I always restart.
But I'll make each letter fit,
And I won't ever quit,
And this still will come straight from my heart.

I want you to imagine
The floor being ****** up from under you
And the ceiling taking its place
And you're free floating in space
Because gravity doesn't exist here
And up is down
Silence is sound
As you spin 'round and 'round
Until you no longer remember
Who you are
Where you came from
Or who's in charge.

Our
                        Whole
                         Lives
                         Are made
                         Of blades.
                         We couldn't
                        Live without
                        Them. It's the
                        Sharpened steel
                        Doctors us to bring
                        Us into our life.
                        It's the cool metal
                        That cuts the
                        Wood to build
                        Our homes.
                        We taunt with
blades keeping such deadly weapons in our homes. To cut our food, and groom our faces. But the greatest irony      
                 comes from life itself,
                for the very blades we
                     Use to protect and
                       Keep our life,
                     Turned around
                     Destroy our very
                     Being and cause
                    Our lives to bleed
                 From the fatal wound
                      Making the end  
           Harmonize with the beginning

light trickles in from the window next door
same lot, new house, new family sleeping
its funny how things have changed around me
while i remain
i wonder if we will grow apart some day

i pass by the same faces, places
blank stares
no one cares all that much today
or yesterday
do i care? i don't know
i wonder if we will grow apart some day

i like to think there is a golden future ahead of me
when all this wandering ends
maybe loves and losses alike
and that I might forget
all the things that make me shudder in my sleep
i hope someone is sleeping next to me
i hope i am far away
i wonder if we will grow apart someday

I pushed aside a plastic box
of plastic-backed thumbtacks,
a half-roll of Scotch tape,
and a paperclipped stack
of edited verse to write
a letter to you.
It went something like this:

Dear Audrey,
     No, that's too informal.
     Just her first name would imply
     our friendship didn't mean anything.
                     What about
Dear Mrs. Barber?
     Way too formal. Like, am I going
     to follow it with "can Billy come out
     to play," or "I'm sorry I threw snowballs
     at the side of your house," or "I apologize
     for skipping your class to pop Tums
     in the nurse's office."
                     Maybe
Dear Audrey Barber.
     Something about the sounds
     doesn't feel right. The Ds and Bs
     hit the eardrum weird, like marsh-
     mallows or caramel toffee.
     They're just too thick.
Dear Audrey Sofield Barber,
          There we go.
     It's been a pleasure knowing you this past year
     or so. In a way, I regret being there for the box-
     moving and the computer troubleshooting,
     but not for the sidewalk shoveling or book editing.
     Or driving you to Elmira Corning Airport to pick
     up your daughter. I'm an English writing tutor here—.

     Never mind. How's your book doing? I'm sure it's a hit.
     Enjoy Hawaii.
Sincerely,
     C. S. Cizek (Christopher)
    
P. S. I plan to purchase "Wellsboro Roots" over the summer
         and relive our conversations in Wellsboro over coffee
         and cheap sugar.

Thank you for the honor.

Isnt it weird to think that we will never live this exact moment ever again
Slowly we age and all we have left are memories of what these moments felt like.
Pictures
Songs
Letters
They bring back more than memories they bring back feelings.
Which is good and bad depending on the memory.

my baby whispers to me in soft, sweeping tones.
his breath breaks bricks against my neck.
a bloated song of corruption that continues its infectious drone,
so he has me singing soul-less strains of wreck.

i writhe against him just to feel the notes that carry sweet half truths grace my being.
sweet arias tell me that seeing is deceiving.
he rubs my shoulders with his hands of menacing gold.
the colossus has struck me with his blessing , my story to tell when old.

the hymn plays on, a story to be told...
a scene to lay waste on a magazine centerfold.

but his grip grows iron on my neck,
and i shatter to pieces.

his anthem strikes me down,
my scream becomes a yawn and ceases