Ten
nearly flawless lines,
made for
both bending
and
breaking

I cant help but privately lament for those who
share that piece of my autograph because
It's a senile old thing
Hardly used and
rarely left untouched by monikers
Composed of four misgiving syllables
And now being sadly echoed
By a dumbfounded lover
Who really should of known better than
to fall in love with a girl
whose names a lie

you deserve a novel,
but these words suffice:
you thief.

meaningless tattoos
and fingers stained blue
with the hair dye I used
last night to spite myself
are this moment's triumphs.

a half full bathtub
with most of my body
above water
is all that is keeping me
from drowning.

symbols of my unfinished life
start closing in on me
until i convince myself
of artificial claustrophobia

"I never did anything to you"
is the cheap excuse tingling
on my slippery, fat tongue

But you never did anything to me either
and my teeth still
grind against each other
when I'm reminded
of your existence

We could have loved each other
if we met today
instead of six years ago
but I'm glad we didn't
because I don't want  to love you

Last night I dreamed of roughened hands,
And pristine walls with spackled sand,
And feeling less,
But wanting more,
Of windows open,
And a creaking door.

Last night I dreamed of voices mild,
And smiling faces, and laughter loud,
I dreamed of grackles in parkling lots,
Of finding familiar and imagining what.

I dreamed of witchcraft and of lore,
And linen hidden in a dresser drawer.

I dreamed of you,
I dreamed of you,
And all the things I'd like to do.