Poets are supposed to be deep
And I am stuck in a rut.

I stood there and I stared at him
I told him I loved him and it'd all be okay
But he knew I lied again.

2am and I'm barely getting home
He's waiting in the living room by his phone
Waiting for enough strength to tell me to leave
Instead, I open the door and he leaps to embrace me.

He knows what I'm doing
He looses his mind, I continue to submit
He's screaming and crying
He pushes me and I deserve it

There's not a thing that I can do
There's not a word I haven't said
I shatter him into pieces
Every night I come home from another's bed.

One dozen migratory Black-and-white Warblers lay
like fallen piano keys on the sidewalk in front
of a 14-story glass constructed building;
I watched as the janitor swept
them into the street.

on October mornings
when the world outside my window
is lost in a pale fog
& faint white light slips between
the spaces in my blinds but spares
me, cloaked in shade & free
to sleep a little longer (if i could)

when the cozy scent of coffee
drifts upstairs, through the chilly air
& kisses me awake
how to savor a stillness so delicate?
threatened by little more
than the **** creaky floor

on October mornings
born mild & undisturbed
i tiptoe through the quiet
vacant rooms that smell of
spice & stale smoke
all is as i left it.
(draped in loneliness)

when i've accidentally made
one too many pancakes
& the wind's whistle haunts me like
a distant friendly ghost
it seems to always be
on these October mornings
that i wish you were here

the most

Sometimes
She felt his skull could crack under the passion in her fingertips 
And wouldn't that be beautiful
To end here, in the immediacy of desire
And wouldn't that be kinder?
Than the drawing out of this pain of inevitability 
The guttural ache
Before the final crack
The splintering, not of bone
But of two hearts 
Prised apart by the fingernails of realisation 
That their shattered fragments can never make each other whole.