I heard they're closing the road that used to connect our houses. The one that crossed over the railroad tracks, remember? 6 am every morning. I always got so excited to see it. So many times spent walking those tracks. May 27th. No more of those. It's not even my house anymore. God knows I'm not welcome at yours.

The  thing about writers
is that we get hurt too often
because we want the world
to think the way we do

but it doesn't.

I almost choked
as the words forced their way up my throat.
They danced on my tongue, taunting the abyss,
and crashed into my teeth
before finally shattering the cold silence.
"*******."

You first tasted of adventure and new-found love.
The flavor slowly faded, though,
in the same way that you don't realize that you've ****** away most of your lollipop
until almost nothing is left.

Sweet honeysuckle:
your nectar brings such delight,
but how short-lived ‘tis.