THE LAST TIME I TRIED TO WRITE ABOUT YOU I HAD AN ON AND OFF HEADACHE FOR A MONTH AND THAT WAS OVER A MONTH AGO TELL ME WHY I'M WRITING ABOUT YOU AGAIN AS IF I DIDN'T LEARN MY LESSON AS IF MY HANDS AREN'T STILL NUMB FROM THE DAY YOU LEFT. I'VE STARTED DRINKING COFFEE IN THE MORNINGS I KEEP THINKING IF I FILL MYSELF UP WITH THINGS YOU HATE MAYBE I'LL BEGIN TO HATE YOU TOO BUT INSTEAD I HAVE THIS ACHING FEELING IN MY CHEST I SWEAR THERE'S A BLACK HOLE ******* UP ALL THE HAPPINESS THAT'S LEFT AND I NEVER HAD MUCH TO BEGIN WITH BUT NOW THAT IT'S GONE I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THIS SADNESS. MY LUNGS ARE FILLED WITH SMOKE I THINK I'M DROWNING I CAN NOT BREATHE AND I DON'T NECESSARILY WANT TO BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE WITHOUT YOU. I DON'T WANT TO SAY MY HEART SHATTERED THE DAY YOU LEFT BUT YOU MUST HAVE THROWN ALL THE TINY LITTLE PIECES INTO THE DEEPEST PARTS OF THE OCEAN JUST SO THAT I COULDN'T FIND THEM. SO THAT I WOULD BE MISERABLE WITHOUT YOU. I'M JUST TRYING TO FIND MY WAY BACK HOME ALTHOUGH I'M NOT SURE I HAVE ONE ANYMORE, BECAUSE I GOT SO USED TO LIVING INSIDE OF YOU AND YOU LEFT. THE ONLY HOME I EVER KNEW ABANDONED ME AND I DON'T THINK I HAVE THE STRENGTH TO BUILD MYSELF A NEW ONE.

Trouble, love...
You drown me in
Quick
Beats;
Palpitations of my
Red *****.
My waters run for you.

Tied with
Ribbons of
Silk,
I shout proclamations
To the clouds who
Threaten to rain on us.

Do you think God wanted to hold Eve's hand,
Whisper into her ear and tell her,
"I know what you did, and I know Adam doesn't know how to,
But I still love you and that's all that matters."

there is a courtyard
behind the abandoned hospital.
vines crawl up the walls like cancer;
like a sickness that cannot be contained.
just like my irrational eagerness for pertinence.
disconnect my conscious thoughts.
*make this infection disappear.

Stillness--
the cicada's cry
    drills into the rocks.

Photographs sure carry a weight, don't they? The black and white and sepia tones speak with a voice that has known sorrow.

They tell the story of fifteen minutes between small talk and bad news.
      Of a motorcycle, a truck, and a bottle.

They inform wary viewers of a Saturday funeral.
       Only six sunsets after a Saturday marriage.

They advise a newlywed widow to let go, to open her heart to love once more.
        Although they know she can now only live in fifteen minute increments.

"But maybe," they say, "she will never take 900 seconds for granted again."