none if it was supposed to happen,
no wine spilling
from whosever glass heart
would hold it.
mine shattered, and it poured profusely,
condescension and hatred,
in good measure.

the lies were supposed to rest
on an old, dusty shelf
with books you no longer read,
forlorn, while warmer things
filled your heart.
only now that it's gone,
do you believe yourself the victim,
and pretend to care.
from what remains, no love of any kind
will ever echo for you again.

i was told that every poem is about death,
***, and love,
never in that order.
that it's our job to organize
the chaos in a way that makes us feel
as though we won't be forgotten
when we're reduced to atoms and scraped,
bit by bit, from every etch
we've ever made
and the earth retakes our homes,
our names,
our loves,
lives, the lost.
but it's just a feeling.
what's important is embracing
every curve, every laugh,
every spat of anger. and learning.
that hurt won't always last unless we let it.

the truth, fettered and afraid,
hid behind pain and silence.
the poet, his eyes bagged and blurred,
tapped pen to page with ink-stained fingers.
per steady grip and endless drafting,
truth came out, and cried.
it didn't know why it hid
but teased the poet to try again.
as such, he rubbed his eyes once more,
his other hand caressing bourbon and ice.

smoke fills his lungs and clings
to his jacket, mixing scents--
his cologne, wet grass,
the lotion on her hands,
their hearts.
in an uneven dance, riddled
with missteps, miscommunication,
missed opportunity.
they can't bear to be bare,
but there they are.

it was plucked from his eyes, his heart,
and the sheer wonder that left them,
stunned.

some cacophonous reverie,
a discordant daydream, pure wants and hopes,
and loves and laughs-- all faded.

what eclectic energy there was in them,
some flicker of familiarity and warmth--
led to a slow, burning descent into some place
he might call home soon.

the hearth embraces truth,
and ends it.
searing corners, ashen smiles,
traversing time by burning
in the opposite direction.
slowly, at times, yet infinite.
we forget to preserve emotion,
as the rest of us are dead
or nearly there.

hiding behind false bravado
and an epoch of shame
twists uncertainty,
anger, and stubbornness.
this wasn't going to be a long
one but it was there to say hello.