you're the kind of girl
that they write books about
i always thought you were fiction
but i can't even remember
the last time i finished a good book
i always drop it at the ******
maybe it's because
we never reached ours
speaking of not being able to finish things

[holyoak]

i'm the bone that you broke 
that never quite healed 
the same way again
familiar
yet slightly out of place
then you asked for a storm 
to break you in a familiar way
so i gave you silence 
and it was more 
than you could ever take
i write so much about grasping
at things i can't hold onto
like your hand 
since it's been slightly out of place
and now i'm not sure 
if i've been talking about you
or myself
they told me that the ink on the page
would replace you eventually
but i think i'm writing in your blood
and once the poetry 
is out of my system 
my veins will dry up 
and i'll look just like you

[holyoak]

It's not that
I didn't know what I had
It's just that
I never thought I'd lose it

I pile stuffed animals on my bed
Seeing stuffing instead of red
Clinging to them tight
They know how to hold me right
Back to childhood
Where everything was always good
No scars to bear-nothing to fear
And smiling ear to ear in a mirror
Reveling in the scent of those days
I snuggle close and everything else dies away
With what's left of learning our letters
Hoping as we get older that everything gets better

you felt like music in my bones 
then suddenly you changed keys 
i was out of tune 
and we forgot the words
it's four o'clock on monday morning
and all that's left
is the memory of your head
on the pillow next to mine
it was here
like this
that we used to listen
to all my favorite records
but I can't now
because when the needle hits the vinyl
i start thinking of you
it's the early hours of the day
when the streaks of morning light
break across the clouds
that I realize
i'm not a morning person
i'm a mourning person

[holyoak]

...