it felt ***** with you
the kitchen i grew up in
the abandoned victorian, alone
but the rotting bowl of fruit

it felt living with you
searching for the best view in town
(the passenger seat at 4am,
facing you)

it was so slow with you
stopping time when we cried and i clung,
suddenly left with the last five years
and the eleven-year-old bird clock

There's a spot on the right side
of my forehead,
that I hate looking at.
It happened before my eyes,
before my hands could see
what kind of chaos they created.
If you walked through the
tiny door in the deepest part
of my brain,
ya know,
the door that is inconceivably
small,
you would hear me
begging my hands to not
let me be bald.

Cigarette hugs and Fireball kisses,
How can this love be fictitious,
How the smoke fills my lungs with tender embrace,
The cinnamon whiskeys gentle caress,
This is true love,
Warm, Comforting,
Whiskey tells no lies as it touches my lips,
The smoke bares no knife as it surrounds my hips,
So Cigarette hugs and Fireball kisses
Because your memory still makes my eyes glisten.

i wanted to tell you i loved you,
but the butterflies in my stomach swarmed my throat, and all the words got caught in their wings