One more
One more cigarette
One more dream
I can only fiddle with my hands
The paper is frail and rolled between my fingers
The dead skin around my nails and the words permanent on my heart
One more
One more time to reach the end of the cherry road
Can we have a proper goodbye?
You make your decisions with lips
Lips that faded into my skin
They left with sins
One more
One more world to open my eyes too
I can ignore the pain for so long
Before the paper falls from the fingertips
And into my reflection in the water.

One more
One more truth so I can be free.

She's
not just a girl.
No, one cannot simply
call her a girl.

She's
a storm,
a storm with skin, bound by
passion and dreams.

She's
a temptation,
her body a fire,
My senses a helpless moth.

She's
a maestro,
her laugh being
the sweetest symphony of all.

She's
a lioness,
the way she perseveres,
fights, and defends.

She's
a diamond,
brilliant and rare,
to be cherished and protected.

She's
a mile,
but only if
beauty was an inch.

There was a time
when I was numb
I was numb to myself
numb to my world
numb to my surroundings

Memories flash like an eclipse
across my glossy eyes
Perfume floods my nose
reminding me of when I could feel
and wasn't numb

The music lingers in my mind
replaying it's tones softly yet stinging
Each word having it's own meaning
causing a tsunami of feelings

I think of you
your touch
your smile
your warmth
your words

You rescued me when I didn't know I was to be rescued
You showed me how to save my myself
from my own being

I think of you again
mysterious
welcoming
yet; distant

I think of you and I
laughing
talking
simply together

I think of a certain day
the day resonating in my brain
the events pounding into my skull
and I think..
yes
this was the day you showed me
what it is to feel
and not to be numb

Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?

My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.

I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.

Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?

Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.

As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.

Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.

Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.