the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

I don't want to tell sad stories
the world has enough
oddly soft focused, florescent beacons
as far as the eye can see
all the other stories
sharp edged brilliant
lost in the bright fog
of lost heart, lost love, lost life
so I try to grasp the harder thing
hold the smaller
harder moments
that don't make you bleed