There is a hole in the window and
in the evenings the
sun slinks back to earth,
the hole flutters pathetically in
the wind. There is no more
energy in the air, and outside—
outside is gray.

The brick walls are crumbling
into dust that is ingested,
readily. Lilia braids
your hair again as you stare
at nothingness, holding back tears.

In the silence now is where
I must struggle to remember again.
The galaxies on my arms
and your tiger stripes will
exist as testaments to the
strength we almost learned to
lose (close your eyes and
hold my hand again).

You laugh has slipped into
every cup of coffee I make and
the slivers of my eyes;
I am stuck now, again, wanting

My words are stale from
overuse, but how else could I
convince you that you are
jewels to me? Stale, again,
again, and soft, and here
again I am left risking
everything for the safe delivery
of one more miracle

I am easy to love and
easy (very easy) to hate.

I sing you, with my voice, to sleep,
and
your voicemail sings me to sleep.
It evens out. I often say this.

Love isn't the same here.
Love here is full of cigarette smoke and
fruit, kissed by flies before it's ever
touched by my lips.

And yet, for some reason,
I don't miss the love there. I don't
miss the chase, or the brazen looks.

This isn't much of a poem, it isn't
written in the
style
or (as my teacher would say)
with the artistry
of a true poem.
But it is my two minute poem for
you, even though you will
not read it.

i. You told me you wanted me,
but after several hours of chasing
you grew tired. All things are impossible,
but you are an exception.

ii. I had my chest stuffed
the other day with a bird, a feather
thing that beats faster than my
heart at the end of the day.

iii. My heart pulses to the hurricanes
on the other side of the planet and
you, when you heard my bones breaking
you told me to hush.

iv. I could care less about
the seasons or perfect planets. All I
see from this spot in the tower is
a meadow of many waters.

v. I misled you into thinking that
this poem would be about love and
instead now it is about birds that
chirp inside the hearts of weaklings.

vi. Pretend if you can that I am a
rhapsodic and warm human, with blushing
girl-flesh. I am not, though. Just
a hard-scaled arthropodic night terror.

vii. Yesterday we were an easy
bike ride to the corner store to buy
candy. Today Mother knows better than
to let me leave the house with you.

You are the only
rainbow standing before
the jagged cliffs
of my hell, and when I
explained to you that
I stopped taking my
anti-anxiety medication
because you made me
feel
so calm,

there was truth in that.

But now I am alone
in the dark again,
swallowing lights by
the whole and hoping that
they will set me afire the
way you did, and
now I am pretending
that everything is alright.
But you are gone,
the wounds across my heart
have stopped healing,
and I cannot tell you
that I need you because
you are a hundred thousand
miles away from me. Now
the era of love is over.

(Let's pretend we are off the stage, the shadows have reached our bellies, the rest of us will be eaten soon enough).

These are my memories, like a noir film,
of you pressing my unwant down further
into my throat. You spoke too soon of a
happy ending where there could be none; there
are too few songs between us and I never even
enjoyed your ****** music. When I think back
to those sullen years, do my fingers tremble?
You can be assured they do. Two roads diverged;
the one less traveled (I thought I took it) and yet,
to find, in reality they had been worn down just
the same. I no different

from my mother who tried so very hard to
escape--to burst colorsong out of her breast.