I can hope
that the door I open
shuffles the words
I want to say
in the right order
at the precise velocity.

Somehow barely
pinching phrases
stretching and minimizing
rectangle ideas that will reflect the standoffish modesty of perfection.

Syllables fly fly fast and aren't heard.

what am I
to carry these insides
that tread in the wrong places

I feel this

After the first wake
of devotion.

Any spark
burns bright then dims.

Each me
is the shadow
of one anothers
ascetic.

We still try
coagulating the unknown known,
and your close drippy beam
destroys me.

All ripe is rotten
actualization
through a feigned gaze.

Heart elevator--
Everytime I think I see--
your name it drops --

I tap parts of my body

so I don't feel you there anymore.

I can't decide which is more absurd.

Slow burn from nightly daze
You aren't where I am.
Eye strain
with biting conviction
swallowed ambivalence
descends.
Do you still exist
as one, lost in the maze?
Your weight of wisdom
is vague and tangled here.
Tumult is the alarm clock.
You are the clock that strikes twelve.

Phrases like roadkill
An overdone face.
Do words fall out my mouth
like the teeth in my dreams

In the wakeful night
I'm never lifted
where the moon eludes me
in wavelets of despondency

Baby, you're so smart
Because you keep it simple.
But you've got locked-in syndrome
when it comes to drawin' lines.

Baby, you keep it simple
with darts as answers
with sweet nothings on Wednesdays
with no calls on Fridays
no more.

And you say you get mad
when I
"hypothesize"
which I thought was
"facing the facts"
You're so clever baby.

Baby, you keep it simple
by putting me on hold,
Just me and the dial tone
for days, weeks, months at a time.

Baby, you keep it simple
when we break up
but you keep squeezin'
i-miss-you's
here and there, like you had too many
nothings to spare.

Baby, you keep it simple
by keeping me on my toes
by not hearing my pillow woes
when I clutch the blankets at 2 am
on the dot every morning
to look for your name
to find blank screens.

Baby, you keep it simple.
So baby please, stop painting the roses red.

There's a pocket of space
behind my ribs, where
I keep a box of your old things.