i still feel your lips on mine
and although it's been several months
time does not heal everything

i fall asleep with my phone in my hand

i skim the cautionary sign on the wall,
trace the worn, beige corners
of stained, manmade words
with the paint-stained pads
of my fingertips.

the words remind me of how
we want to imprint everything--
silent objects, the cold copper posts
on roadends
they tell you not to question
the autonomous compass
that borrows
inside the souls
of your feet.

who writes the manuscripts for walls?
the dramatic monologues of inanimate objects
my walls of celery speak for themselves:
*this house is powered by tacos.

you said you'd always be there for me.
i realized you lied too late.

give me back my virtue and my passion.
give me back my youth and my love.
give me back my friends i used to love.

you can take the children and the car,
but give me back my mind.

the worst crimes are committed for love.
if this is where love leads us,
why were we born with
hearts?

Let's take the words the devil says,
and rip it out your mouth
when I look in your eyes,
I see the evil that no one has gotten through
your scales beneath your skin are tearing through your flesh
You're always so angry, full of bitterness, please tell me why
you feel you are forced to live like this

I saw a lovely flower
in the desert sand
Its fragrance carried
across the arid land

And as I pushed
with my last reserve
Toward one gem
so lovingly preserved

My senses still
drawn to the scent
But then how
and where it went

I did not see and
still do not know,
it happened so quick
and so long ago

The flower exquisite
wasn't there anymore
it was not the petals
but the aroma I went for

The first snowflake of winter fell onto her russet locks,
settled with a place to rest
but she reached her hands up in a fumble
and pulled them from the tangled mess
they melted in her palm,
and became little puddles of  n o s t a l g i a