Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
    He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
    There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
    Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

Your voice was soft and there was something about your disposition that could just lull me to sleep. It’s not because you were boring, hell I could listen to you for hours.

No, you were gentle with every word that you spoke almost as if you were tiptoeing around the harness in this world. You candy coated it for me, almost like you were protecting me from something.

I remember the night I met you, the second you gazed upon me with those pool-blue eyes, was the moment my heart started play a soft concerto of love.

It hasn’t stopped since. You were the muse to the melody of every step I took. And in the first month that

I knew you, I was born again.

I dragged my feet on the sidewalk every night I went to get a cup of coffee. Along the way I’d coach myself.

My insomniac ways needed to learn to take in the night air with each stride, allow my chest to beat with all that I feel.

Every day is a new day and so is the moon, and just maybe you could teach me how to fly because baby you make my heart sing.

For each night that dragged me out just so that my drooping eyes could find something sweeter to look at than the cold air above my bed.

Each and every night that I’d find you again in that that coffee shop window, my heart composed a new tune.

I swear by now, my body has created an infinite number of songs for you.

One night, I said that my love for you shined brighter than the solar system and spanned wider than the universe.

I guess my cliché cosmonaut tendencies rubbed off on you because you asked me if I ever wanted to travel to the moon. And I said that I’d only do it with you by my side.

That was the night that I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.

But bend and break comes hand in hand with eve and flow.

Bind my soul to everything I crave then toss me aside like I’m nothing.

There’s something about this silence. It sends chills through my entire body.

The fear of being alone strung through the back of my brain. Leaving my head caught in a whirlwind of thoughts, a warpath of emotions.

That’s what you did to me.

Leaving every fiber of my being screaming for help, red tunnel vision in sight. Screaming, but with no audible words.

You played with heartstrings, turning my vital organs in to sick love puppets.

The butterflies that rage in the pit of my stomach suffocating me as they crowd the back of my throat.

Our love was like a thunderstorm, two fronts clashing, composing a volatile connection that sent everyone running.

You knew the rain was coming and so did I. I was a fool to think that you would stay, but I was enchanted by your soul. Put under a spell by those swimming pool blue eyes.

I loved you, and in return you taught me the greatest lesson in life. Don’t love someone, it hurts too much.

titled: The True Confessions Of A Heartless Girl

this is not an apology letter and i will not apologize about my words that reek of *****, neither will i express my heartfelt woeful regret for burying what was left of your love under black wilted roses. in September we spent four hours under a tree attempting to bind our hearts and minds but i crumpled them together with the fallen autumn leaves, leaving you staring at the exposed bits of yellow xanthophylls and orange beta-carotene blended with the beautifully bruised muscle. i’m not sorry that your flowers ended in the trashcan with the weeds, but they were crooked and fading. i’m not sorry that the love poem you requested from me was written in the cemetery on the back of your father’s obituary, and i’m definitely not sorry that the first tree i felled in my backyard was the one with our initials carved in your pinned dead heart. call me heartless, but this will clear up everything you were ever baffled about. i am heartless. no, not that type of heartless. i am literally heartless. in my chest there lies a chest of drawers which used to be unlocked and filled with human traits but somehow along the way i think the key to them ended up rusting in my bottomless pit of a stomach. i won’t ask if you still feel that tingle in your spine when my name is mentioned, but did the letters from her burn prettier than the ones from me? did your last name fit her better than it did with me? did the last petal you plucked ended with “she loves me”? i know she smells like honey and roses but i’m not sorry that i smell like roadkill and expired cheese. now it’s December and i’ve changed my name to Hollow then repainted my skin with cut out pieces of eulogies. once upon a time i was actually a teen girl with hummingbird heart beats and red apples for cheeks, but as of today i am completely out of touch with this world, painting nail varnish on cigarettes and tucking in tulips with the weeds. her sad words may be written on textured paper but mine will stand up and punch you in the eye. most of the time we learn that you have choices in life, but all i ever know is that for every big leap you take you’ll end up with a splintered bone and it’s just like writing your life story in permanent ink. maybe one day the ocean will freeze and you’ll find the hidden message in your coffee, but this is not an apology letter and i’m still not sorry for scalding your skin with a hot iron rod when we were twelve years old. see you in the pool of regret; i won’t be there, since i’m lacking a heart.

**** me

for crumbling lies

for falling for you

for saying sorry

and my
un-ability
to accept.

and i just wonder
what itd be like
if we went for coffee at 2am
on a rainy, tuesday morning


would you tell me about your day
your thoughts
your feelings
or would we sit
in blissful silence
until the sun started to rise


and when our last sip was gone
would we part ways
and leave the other wondering
"is that love"