she laid
in the color changing leaves
which were dying
along with her
-------------------------------------------------------
i'm mighty jealous
of that blanket that
gets to hold you
all night long
-------------------------------------------------------
she closed her eyes
and remembered all his features
when their skin touched
and their warmth mixed
-------------------------------------------------------
let­ me tell you
all the ways
i love you
with just the
tenderness of my expression
------------------------------------------------------­-
you're my sun
the one that keeps
me alive and warm
and yet
I find myself
not wanting that sun
-------------------------------------------------------
press­ wet kisses
to my collar bones
and mummer
sweet nothings
into them too
------------------------------------------------------
that twinkle in your eye
does not come
from thin air
there has to be a reason
and I hope that reason
is me
-------------------------------------------------------
one day
i will be nothing more
than a phantom
haunting your memories
just like you did
to me
-------------------------------------------------------
as this thunder collides with the sky
i lay staring at the ceiling
remember all the times
you shielded me
from the rain
-------------------------------------------------------
thes­e are the nothings
i write in my mind
and drape across paper
to show myself
i am not insane
i am only human

You cannot tell a word to its meaning
until it is felt in to the brain,
and turned into sound.
Only to make it more worse we
say things we should hear,
instead. Like "thank you"s
and "sorry"s

The oceans are, if not, the wails
in words of the earth alone.
Perhaps explosions of asteroids in far space
are just wails of the universe.
Wails, sobs and cries
Are words only to describe
But the question stands
and might be unanswered
are words hollow or
are they weighted?

it takes a real proud man to make a girl cry hard. most things a girl can cry off in ten minutes. Tough things. Like giving birth to big *** babies with their big *** heads and ****. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the deepest cries. Ones that come from the most hurt-felt part of a woman's soul. Ones that make your eyes close and your stomach sick. Ones that make your whole body freeze, and all you can think is, "i am responsible for this unbearable pain, on such a gentle woman's soul."

i am a master of this art. i have learned the call of the lone woman; almost a swan song, of a dying gentle soul begging to be heard. Begging, for the one who can save her to act before she drowns; to do anything but stand there and stare. Anything but let her die this lonesome death just out of reach of his arms.

i have a recipe for hurt. tested and tried thoroughly over the years, i can now say it is perfected. i can hurt beautiful souls and shatter their wonderful dreams, then so simply turn it around to make it sound like it was their fault. one may say this is a fine delicacy. i say it is the recipe to feed lost souls. ones who will be lost in limbo for all eternity because even in death, their pride was still too big for the afterlife.

there is a special talent i have that is unique for mastering the art of hurt. like x-ray vision it is a power to bring out, in other people, what they don't want anyone to see. i can bring out the worst in a beautiful soul faster than you can look in someone's eyes. i can make monsters of magnificent beings, then call them crazy and be on my way.

Leaving behind a faded tye-dye that's left to hang dry in the sun, knowing that her colours will never shine as bright as they once did, ever again.

.

Beneath that loved   and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really   blindly veined,
grieves, maybe   lives and lets
live, passes   bets,
something moving   but invisibly,
and with what clamor   why restrained
I cannot fathom   even a ripple.
(See the thin flying   of nine black hairs
four around one   five the other ******,
flying almost intolerably   on your own breath.)
Equivocal, but what we have in common's   bound to be there,
whatever we must own   equivalents for,
something that maybe I   could bargain with
and make a separate peace   beneath
within   if never with.

His long fingers clenched into their palms
His dark eyes were black with intent
Every elongated pause was an intricate harmony
gracefully accompanying the words
that tumbled from his cracked lips
He heightened himself and leaned in earnestly
Feverish want spilling into his rich voice
revealing the fear that had bloomed in his ribcage over the years
Fear that snaked up his throat and caught there
restricting his temperament
Fear that rose from knowledge of failure

Failure indeed lurked sickeningly
In the frosty air
In the purple autumn shadows
In the smell of hot cement
In the satiny pearl petals of the dogwood his mother had planted

He was a single smooth stone in an endless riverbed
Shaped by
the restlessness that flooded him
the desire that washed over him
the nostalgia that swept around him

Frantic to break out of the flow that was accepted by the crowds
Desperate for the peace that surpasses understanding

And in that moment
his finite experience and crooked path
meant less to her than the last of the cigarette she proceeded to flick into the breeze
Outweighed by her faith in the lighthearted boy trapped inside this troubled man's body