It’s 2:24 and it’s raining sand to clog up eyes and put this house to sleep.
The wind rocks the foundation as the windows crack and yawn.
My spine feels the shudder as the walls give in and surrender to the night.
It’s 2:27 and I’m awake in the bare skeleton, left alone to converse
with the breath of a ghost that once held hopes of a happy home.
Oh, if I could get outside these walls.
Yank me from my human state.
Let the night turn me into dust so that I may ride the winds of change,
because even false hope is better than none.
Let birds build nests from my ribs, let rabbits gnaw on my arms.
Send my heart out to the ocean
(oh, to be an ocean)
Let the fish thrive in my hair.
But do leave my spine to congeal into this skeleton wall,
so part of me may remain to comfort those I leave behind.
It’s 2:43 and I’m giving myself over to encompassing black.
So long, dearie.

He’s strewn like sea glass and bottle caps across a vast stretch
of thought and broken reality.
With ideas the shade of his hair and shattered mirrors reflecting green oceans.
He speaks in broken typewriter and favorite albums,
with wonderful word explosions plotted like mine fields.
Greatness and aesthetic appreciation lost in a fog
of “used-to-be’s” and “not-good-enough’s.”
So deeply immersed is he in this false state,
that his heart strings untie and veracity leaks,
to be buried beneath black sand and tumultuous waters.
Looking out from deep inside; can you remember how it feels to float?
For just a moment, he lets the galaxy settle in his bones, and he is so beautiful.
He shakes and breaks and he’s a snowglobe of erupting suns and burning stars, before the black hole consumes yet again;
and how lovely dead stars are in the calm quiet of heated seclusion.
She pushed through chilled fingers and planted herself in his veins,
rooting in his heart and he unintentionally did in hers;
Tangling their leaves in hopes of deciphering the code
hidden in shaky lips, downcast eyes, and bitten skin.
Their opposing forces cracked his roof.
A tree of words and intertwined fingers forced its way through that crack
and to the sun.
He fails to realize that the pressure on his ribcage is her lips,
and the heat he feels is not a self-lit flame,
but fingertips on perfectly sculpted cheekbones.
And so afraid was she that his tight warmth and soft glow would be taken by
winds, that she inked his being into processed pine with meteors for witnesses.
She loved so hard that she exposed him to the night, and still the moonlight
could not penetrate his polluted atmosphere.
And still she stayed, until new dawn shown into a bleary green soul.
And when his monsters retreated, for a little while, he found her
with his ashes in her hair, and her smile at his neck.
She stayed, for her life was in his lungs
and patches of new grass grew up through his chest.
And though he drowns in false incompetence, though he understands nothing, he breathes.
And in the confusion, he can always reach, always to be engulfed
by acceptance and love he refuses but deserves.
He will always find a set of ever-changing lights that never flicker in his hurricanes.
Lights that give their all to this impossible boy,
her beautiful love, hidden in his attic.