You illuminate the worst parts of me,
an unforgiving mirror
bouncing off the surface of the moon

but I am a child of moonlight,
I drink starlight for breakfast,
spitting out that bitter reflection, like fire

until it reaches the very edge
of the solar system and kisses
the face of the sun

as it rises

Grace diminished,

what once was a bright, shining star

is now a blown out candle

I trace your name in the smoke, in the wax

a desperate attempt to rebuild from the ruins

our love is the flames that went out

without warning

and without a match to get them going

again

candle wax
and dried tears
velvet ropes
and silver chains
thick, black smoke
that engulfs the heart
twists it into impossible shapes
they speak to me
the bodiless ones, in my head
when the world has gone to bed
conspiring and calculating
condemning and
confining me to their
silver sphere of insanity
where home is nowhere
and nowhere is home

Ophelia was lucky,

I bet the lake was idyllically pretty,
peaceful, secluded,

I bet she was surrounded by flowers,
weaving themselves into her wet, tangled hair,

I bet she was dreaming as she drowned,

there would have been no one
forcing down a door

no sirens and blue flashing lights
racing her back to life

Ophelia was lucky,

fifty aspirin doesn’t have quite
the same ring to it

as a Shakespearean suicide

I dodged a bullet,
but the near miss rings in my ears,
broken glass scattered around my feet,
and y.o.u...
lingering when I close my eyes,
on my clothes,
and in every beer bottle
I will ever drink from, now
my mouth dry but resisting rehydration,
until I shrivel up, skin brittle and cracked,
organs s.h.u.t.t.i.n.g.d.o.w.n...
I dodged a bullet, fired by your gun,
but I shall still die by your indirect hand...

Women of fire burn more
than the bridges that no longer serve them

they burn holes in the souls of their lovers

leaving them forever branded
with their spirit of flame

engulfing their hearts in passionate smoke,
so that they may choke on their very presence

even when are no longer there

whether their love is reciprocated

or not

We are the winter romantics

steaming mugs of hot chocolate
wrapped in striped sweaters

we find beauty in leaving our
footprints in the snow

trying to leave an imprint
of a hearts on the Earth

but Spring comes and we

thaw