You expect it to happen.
Oh, how much you want it to happen.

But because you are not blessed
It will not happen to you.

It will happen to him.
And all the good in it will flow to him.

Without plan, without intention, without effort
He will gain at your loss.

So listen: Dance with the dream
For it holds everything you gave up for him.

Under the street light
Staring at the dust bin
Let the dogs get away
With all the meat left

I'm hungry, thirsty
No droplet of water
Found clean anywhere
Am I the only one?

A blue tourmaline sky hung above,
Wispy grass stood steady,
Only swaying, occasionally,
To the song of the bush cricket.

He lay down in the open air,
And traced unseen words across the sky,
Ink forever wet, forever dry,
Unwritten poems, lost to the afternoon.

Sometimes I whisper my secrets to the ceiling.
Only when the lights are off,
And the fan is spinning.
The fan is very nosey.
I think he is a German spy.
Or maybe I'm the German spy,
And that's what my secrets are all about.
No one will ever know.
Except,
Of course,
For the ceiling.

I hate myself
for wanting to be pretty
but even more, I hate the world I live in for
   making me feel like I need to be
pretty
in order to amount to anything
   but it's been etched into my brain
      like the alphabet or "I'm fine, thanks, how are you?"

I guess I ran
out of words
when I stopped believing
   that I needed you to love me back

sometimes I still think of you but only
in the moment between tracks on a CD
or at stoplights
or in the the spaces of light between my fingers
  when I shield my eyes from the sun

but there are a lot of things I
sometimes think about
so maybe
   you're not so special after all
just a speck of static
I clung to
  when I had nothing else to hold
  or when there was no one else
to fill the space around me