If I’m to write of you, the paper cannot be plain
it must have
torn edges
and be made of beautiful linen.
The words will not rhyme –they will be scattered
‘cross the page…
but fall perfectly, from my lips.
There will be unnecessary and hopelessly romantic
pauses- -
With deep, aching sighs hidden in between
these lines.
And memories of touch
of
hands
his hands
[your] hands
on my skin, which now glisten with sweat
As my heart continues to keep time
to this song
of you
and I.

You
with your perfect lies
have stolen
nights, memories, the very breath from my chest
because every time
I try
to inhale
I
choke
on tears.
You
with your everything’s
have left me
with nothing
but regret, emptiness and lips that want to
forget what you feel like
but scream your name.
You
with your I’m sorry’s
and me with my it’s okay’s
pretending to laugh
when all
i
do
is
cry.

It was the beginning of Spring – no flowers, yet.
Nothing, had bloomed.
I wore black.
He wore, everything I wanted to hear.
I shouldn’t have been so, so, so – eager.
He saw that, too.
And then he just – smiled.
As I saw my reflection dancing in his bright, green eyes,
I was more blinded by the fluidity of my movements – so steady –
when he was around – so careful – not to trip over my own voice…
I only wanted to hear him speak
anyway.
Dances and dances – he twirled me through the summer
down, down, down…around his finger these beautiful dances
of dishonesty.
And then he just – touched
Me. Everywhere.
We wouldn’t even be in the same room and I could feel his hands
all
over
my
body.
And then he just – said he loved me.
And it felt real.
And then it was gone