I just wanted to tell you
I wrote everything for you.
So when I leave
You'll still have these words of mine.

Typewriters are more romantic than
Leather journals and black pens.
But there's something about my cursive that feels like
I'm just writing unsent letters with love from my wrist
To you.
And to me
That's the biggest piece of my soul I have to offer.

There is a city that prefers to be lit by stars
Sporting an abandoned gas station shelter.
Where a mattress finds a roof. A fence finds a fortress.
And in this city with no streetlights there is a house.
With three rooms, a kitchen, and a yard filled with sharp things.
There is also a roof. There is also a mattress. There is also a fence.
There is no one there.
But the cockroach that lives in the makeup drawer in the bathroom
With the mirror that's too high on the wall.

Maybe this whole book was given
For starting over.
The same chapter written twice.
Or three times.
Or four.
First in pencil for erasing,
But that weakened the page
And it became sensitive.
So in pen. Crossed out and scarred
Printed and indented into every line.
Infinite directions multiplied by infinite interpretations.
They met, but why?
They wrote, unanswered.
Once or twice. But sometimes called and answered.
Yearned for the alternate ending
Of which reality lacks.
This book is made for starting over and dwelling
In chapters already written
But lacking romantic perfection.

I'm writing with unsteady hands
Walking on frozen feet.
Rebellious phase. Changing myself.
Always with the realizations at 1:30 in the morning.
And when I write about waking up to your face it's because I can see it.
Just as it is like a lucid dream.
I smell coffee all over every fantastic moment of existence
Because I'm fairly certain my existence started with you.
You don't know how often I cry, or how loudly I think.
Or that I'm not really a writer. Just a distracted
Addict
To putting myself in characters.
Remembering what my life was, and what it has become.
I don't write I create.
I don't write I remember.
I don't write I dream.
And it's not about me, it's not about you,
It's about everything I've ever wanted it to be but
Was
Am
Too afraid to do
Be.
Become.
Idealism is everything I wasn't but am choosing to aspire to.
With my hair with my eyes with my ears.
I want you to see me the way I see me.
But that's unreliable.

A twin bed is big enough for two
Perhaps those two chairs are for me and for you.
Even your car says to leave you be and I will never understand how winter
Can harden your heart.
In this house glasses fog and furnaces roar with every passing moment but everything inside coolly whispers
Faster and softer with every heartbeat nervously pounding on my lungs
As my breath gets louder as my throat closes and my mind races
To images of Christmas lights and coffee, gloves and sweaters
Complaining about the cold knowing there's nothing we can do about it.
So we go home and watch a movie drinking hot chocolate from coffee mugs.
Waking up the next morning on a twin bed made for one.
I will never understand how silently you live your life.
A spark from a match can become a candle or a wildfire, one fades and one scars.
And you can drive your car anywhere you like but where will you go alone?
You can sleep every night but what will you do by yourself?
You have a voice you don't use but to sing your praises and excuse yourself but you have a beautiful mouth
That you can use to form the most beautiful words.
Like hello
And even goodbye
Men prefer loneliness from time to time and that's okay but not this winter.
Not this winter.

This isn't Paris, there are no lights here
But the stars that sit vulnerably above the dark streets at night.
Reflecting on the drops of rain that fall with no order filling the potholes and cooling the air.
Even the desert gets cold in December, and the cold makes everyone feel lonely.
So here's to the bowl of glitter on my desk.
The letters written that will never be sent.
The twin sized bed unkempt and cold by the window
And the lights that stopped working weeks ago.
To scarves that warm necks and hats that warm heads
While there's nothing to keep my heart from nervously pounding every time the dog barks at night.
Here's to coffee tasting and wrestling over the last brownie,
Friends that become lovers and lovers that stay friends.
The lamplight is dim but it's there all the same
And as long as my shivering hands can type I'll be writing these letters I'll never send.

I asked what's a home?
And she said
"a place where we know how to turn on the water."
And I thought maybe it wasn't my home.
So I'll go get some midnight coffee down the street.
And pretend there's no one back there to yell at me
Maybe then I can keep these words in my head long enough to write them down
Or maybe I'll get drunk craning my neck to see the stars
And realizing it's the lights of on-coming cars.
The streetlights in this town are too dim.
I think that's why there's no hope here anymore.

She can only say I love you so many times before
The words mean nothing anymore.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love.
I love.
I love.
I.
I.
I.
.
.
.
Meaningless.
Who feels love anymore?
She asks after one cider too many wrapped in a Christmas sweater.
Telling herself it’s barely November.
You’re a loser.
You’re a loser.
You’re a loser.
a loser.
a loser.
a loser.
loser.
loser.
loser.
Some words sting harder in college than middle school ever made them feel.
And some words linger longer than high school lasts.
*****.
Loveless.
Loose.
She starts another cider.
Pathetic.
Hated.
Failure.
Awkward.
And how about some wine now?
Wine?
Whine.
Win?
Gin.
Drink?
Drink.
It’s time to change herself
She decides this and it is.
And it always will be.
It is law.
It is law.
It is Law.
It is.
It is.
It is.
It.
It.
It.
Is the start of yet another person
With the same eyes but different hair
A different voice.
A new person.
A new person.
A new person.
Person.
Person.
Woman.
With value. Intelligence. Beauty. Grace.
Silence. Voice. Love.
January will be a new start.

'Tis better, they say, to have loved and lost than to have never
Truly
Loved at all.
To love in a way that fans a fire in your soul the likes of which no forest on earth, no volcano on mars
Has ever experienced.
And why love at all?
At the end of every path there's a giant elm tree sticking its bitter head out of the soft, white ground as you coast the ups and downs holding tightly to the reigns
Trying vainly to steer.
There's red in her hair.
And red in the snow beneath you. Around you. Inside of you. Coming from you.
Because.
'Tis better to risk your life to be with her forever than to live in the silence of creaking floorboards
With living martyrs wrapped in wrinkles and pale eyes always on you.
To die.
Together.
Because of love than to live with anything else.
Often you lose. But that's why it's a risk.

Never explain except for in love.
When you explain why you feel the need to exaggerate everything that makes you unique
And challenge those who challenge you. Fight those who beat you. Conquer those below you.
When you stand alone in front of the one and say I Am Who I Was Made To Be.
And perhaps explain who you are.
Why you're weird, grotesque, mature, immature, laugh, smile, cry, dream, write.
And that some people watch, some read, some write, some frown, some
Take the time to grow into cases the world lacks the capacity to withstand.
And maybe explain why you're content with this mediocrity that is laughing at yourself.
Singing loudly to empty rooms in a dark house with an off-pitch voice.
Walking the silent, cold streets with your head down arms closed around your chest.
Never excuse yourself for this.
Only explain that this is who you are and no person of worth can take that away.
And no person of worth will take that away.
They will embrace the surprises and the emotions and love.
Without needing an explanation.

I think I'm secretly just a white girl
With an infinity scarf and coffee with one pump of vanilla, cream and nutmeg.
Mooching off Dad's netflix account.
Pretending to be deep for likes.
And listening to music through my smartphone.
But something tells me it's not a secret.

Everyone wants to fall in love
But all I want is a pen and some tequila
And to remember every detail about the dream I had a couple of nights ago.
About a small ship in a big ocean
A castle with a maze of hallways.
Perplexing. Confusing. Invigorating.
Terrifying.
Then I can wake up and go to church,
Forget to check my texts again.
And wonder what it must be like to lose yourself in another person.
Then I'll write it down.

I want you to buy us a house on second street.
The one with the bed right there on the porch.
Twinkling lights overhead
Surrounded by a dense garden that definitely doesn't belong in this
***-hole filled, trailer trash neighborhood.
There are at least three cacti growing out front, and the house is so tan
Like it's spent way too much time in the sun.
You can go to work every morning with a cup of fresh coffee in your hand
Wrapped in a lipstick stained note saying
I love you honey
Make some money
I'll be here when you come home.
I can spend my days playing violin to the weeds
Writing love notes to strangers to pay the bills.
Or maybe a few sad songs, depending on the rain.
When you get home I'll have a new poem for you
And we can drink iced tea on the porch
And fall asleep under the stars.

It's about time for me to move away; this was never going to work.
The sun is too hot, the wind is too cold, and
Frankly,
I never had the energy to question the winter.
Bundled up, walking in the dark and watching over my shoulder for demons
I've never seen, but never not known them.
I'd rather let go and sleep on any corner in any town
Letting go of what I never had
Than to lay comfortably in a bed I've never shared.
And I've said never seven times.
Because that's how certain winter is.

I'm getting **** tired of people listening to music
Just as a reason to grab another person
And mumble words like they're meaningless obstacles towards your mouth
Doing other things.
Bump some tunes, play the bass loud, so we might not hear our intellects
High shrieks as they wither away into nothing.
And we don't have to look each other in the face
When we decide to own one another like slavery,
Like hate,
Like every other ist that exists to stop us from seeing each other for who we are
Intellects and children of thought
And of accomplishment. And of brotherhood.
And of progress.
Everyone needs to grow up. See the world for the opportunity it is.
And use words like they're pieces of gold.
Priceless.

Do you remember when we drank coffee together
That one morning? And I was
Writing you a letter, but I stopped when you walked in
So we drank coffee together and laughed.
Then separated.
And that was the last time you and I have laughed together
And I miss your smile. And I miss your laughter.
And I wish there was vanilla coffee cream for this bitter taste
You leave in my mouth and in my mind.
But you just walk away. You want to live alone.
So I think I have to accept somewhere along this road
Dark and lonely and desperate for a streetlight,
That my coffee is too bitter for you.
And while I like my coffee bitter
Because it makes the sweet things, the vanilla and the cinnamon
So much sweeter,
You are looking for a roast that is mellow. That will not
Challenge you. That will not
Test you.
And I can't promise you that.
But you will always be welcome back to me
To drink coffee. Even when you're bitter. Even when you're angry.
And I will make it sweet for you.

If I were to become a cynic.
Which I'm not saying I am,
Nor am I admitting I'm not,
It would be because of the way you smile
In every direction
Until
Your eyes meet mine.
And do I believe in living?
Or science?
If so, then tell me why,
My life starts with your frown
And there's no chemistry to properly and mathematically explain
How my heart could possibly skip a beat
And my lungs could forget how to work
Every time you find yourself
Near me.

If I were an optimist,
Which I'm not saying I am
Nor am I admitting I'm not
It would be during the times I find myself
On my knees praying
That you'll walk by me and stop.
Speak.
Listen.
Love.
And pray with me.

If I were yours,
Which I'm not saying I am
Nor am I admitting I'm not.
I would love you with a love so infinite
Unbreakable, fiesty, loud, passionate, and changing
That you wouldn't be able to breathe.
And if I believed in love, if I felt love was worth the risk,
Would you?
Do I believe in sacrifice?
Do I believe in the weight of the world, Atlas' shoulders, the music in the air?
If I did, how could it possibly explain
This out of breath, tear stained face I have to carry with me
Everywhere I go.

We are lions in cages.
Extroverts anonymous. Facades of hopeful futures.
We        think        differently
Because we are so special
The ball and chain around her ankle is a ten pound book-bag
Portable computer. Portable phone.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Who whips the lions?
The kings and the queens of the jungle.
Are ******.

Hate me.
Like every word I've uttered has cursed your name.
Every laugh has been at your expense.
Every smile a plot against you.
Even before I met you I want you to hate me.
My life has led to you.
And now we're sitting in a room
While you're silently seething, burning
With this awkward attempt at che sera, at live and let live,
At Apathy.
You know how I hate that.
I told you to hate me!
Do so! In the grandest display of passionate fury to be trapped inside of these four walls.
Make your words fly like daggers towards my very life
And blaze and scorch the very skin I use for protection.
Throw me to the wall with a growl in your voice that makes everything inside of me
Tremble.
And I will disappear.
I have patiently waited for your hatred.
Since you first looked into my eyes and told me.
So long as the sun rises and sets I will continue to wait.
So just hate me loudly already.

I don't rhyme anymore.
Walking home in the dark,
Holding hands with strangers and
Falling.
Painfully; shocking my body
As it cracks and whips when it hits the ground.
The sunlight beating off of my straw hat.
Shoes that are too small
People that talk too much.
And people whose tongues are raw with bite marks.
The Word of the Lord.
Sitting, standing, crawling, drinking,
Coffee and tea.
Outside stairwells at midnight
Trying to breath and waiting for peppermint.
My life does not rhyme.
So why should I?

Beauty is whispered after silence
In emptiness.
I am beautiful
Tonight I don't remember why,
I will never remember why.
Haunted by memories of times I was tamed.
Beauty is wild and free.
Tender and grotesque.
Regrets when you stop holding my hand.
Whispered in a busy crowd.
baby
I'm sorry. Beauty is not this.
Out of breath, out of sleep, tender mangling of love letters
Unrehearsed tango of the lips in the dark.
I will love you forever.
Will never stop trying.
And your silence is beautiful.

I have three favorite things:
Coffee.
Whiskey.
The southwestern sun beating down on my bare shoulders.
And if one day I leave here
Don't let me forget to take the sun
And wash it in my sink.
So it shines brighter and brand new
On every cactus in the Sonoran Desert.
So it reaches all the way to Washington D.C.
One day while I'm reporting
About monkeys in suits running the playground
I'll feel it.
Take off my blazer and let that southwestern sun burn me red.
Then I'll go home.
Put some whiskey in my coffee.
And I'll be happy.

There is a street somewhere in the world with snow and old lamp posts.
Where a man sits under a street light writing.
To no one in particular about nothing in particular
Waiting for a woman to pass him and steal his soul.
Because she is untamable and fierce. But quiet.
There's a notebook in her purse hidden under a flask and two unopened packs of cigarettes.
And she is **** beautiful.
Walking straight towards no where.
On an empty, *** hole filled road in the south.
Hoping to pass a street light covered in snow with a man sitting helplessly underneath
Who could really use two brand new packs of cigarettes
And a shot of whiskey.

Five, four, three, two... too late.
For any of this. Too late for anything
Too late for love, too late for lust.
The park smells like emptiness every morning
Feels like rain on a perfect day.
I hate the rain.
Dripping on my glasses.
I hate you. Running through my mind.
Five, six, seven, eight... hate this thinking of you
All the time. Nothing but your lips
On my neck,
You're hands wrapped around mine and me
Making up stories about who I am
And you. Already. Leaving. Without me.
Because crazy is contagious. And that's what I am.
And you're afraid of me.
And I'm afraid of me too.
But all that counts is us counting down
To when it'll all
Be. Positive. Again.
So drive away and don't look back.
I'll walk home in this rain.
One day you'll count on me.

The young are foolish and blind.
Pretending each figure looming over us is Jesus or Barack Obama
Whispering sweet infinities down our necks and into our ears.
"I want you. I want you. I want your body. I want you."
Everyone looks the same in the dark?
But the comfort of a panic attack suffocating you in silence doesn't happen with him.
So explain why, when satan throws me down, I'm supposed to pretend to want it.

I would have asked you to sit with me,
But the truth is I prefer my own company.
It's certainly no reflection on the faux concern you tend to display
For the bags under my eyes
Delivered with as much subtlety as a musical theater major
Hinting at their next performance.
All while your face is glazed over checking your updates.
Mentally and physically in another world.
Yet politely trying.
I spent the past four hours talking to people
But not seeing them.
My sprained ankle suffocating inside my no slip shoes
Bending and breaking under the pressure of each turn and step
Right now all I want to do is rest it and watch people
While the October breeze blows my hair over my face.
So sorry you didn't get the invite.
But maybe next time.

I don't know any weak men, only boys.
Which is okay to be. But nothing to aspire to.
My preference is men. Men who need no one.
Men who don't love.
Love is for boys. Love is for girls.
On playgrounds, playing Mom and Dad
And lasting as long as Mom and Dad.
Men and women like. And want.
And when they must love, they lust
In the most passionate display of love Hollywood has ever
Been privileged not to destroy
With a *** domain name.
Men are boys who grow up and adjust to the needs
Of themselves as men who were once boys.
And let life direct them towards what they can become.
And then become it.
Men rise to the challenge while boys challenge it.
And while they are punched and beaten
Blood will not slow them down.
Men are not weak. Neither are boys.
But boys are not men. And boys are not for me.

Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.

He is not the type of man who will remain ruined.
Or to let blood stop a fight.
He's not the type of man to stay silent
In corruption and leisure.
He's not the type of man to sit and think
He speaks. He yells. He growls.
He hunts and drinks. Throws the bad to the ground
And the good he leads with purpose.
He has the power.
On his own.
To make and to destroy.
He is not the type of man
To be any type of man.

If she were to fall
She would be the last to know.
She keeps her chin held that high
The only thing she sees is the stars.
No one would notice
Him pulling her down.
She's hypnotizing.
They'd only see the stars too.

May I please be honest?
Just, for once today, tell the truth
About something that means nothing
To absolutely everyone reading this.
It's just one, single, honest statement.
From me to you.
That you can trust with all your heart
And that I can put all of my spirit into
Because I know it won't ever betray me.
I just want to be real.
To make it known that I'm capable
Of honesty.
Here goes.
I hate the cold. It gives me headaches.
And makes me lonely.

If you don't buy me some wine
Then I'm just going to take shots of that **** ***** my cousin bought me
Alone in my room
Until I forget about this week
And finally get some sleep.
You know what...
I'll do that anyways.
Wine or no wine
Today is the day to start
Drinking again.
And making mistakes I can blame on something other than myself.

This morning I cried twice.
Once walking to school.
It was dark, and it was cold.
And I was going to meet with God
We needed to talk about something
And He wasn't
Saying what.
So I pulled my brother's old flannel shirt
Around my coffee stained top
And cried right there
In front of a homeless person
Waiting for a bus that wasn't coming.
Then I cried again
Because I still had no idea
What God wanted from me.
And it dawned on me
That that was the point.

There's a complex on the corner of three streets
Just south of something and north of something else.
One time a girl stood there crying in the rain all alone
Waiting to get picked up by anyone who wouldn't ask where her tears came from.
All she could say was she was sorry.
At night there's this dog that barks for no reason
No matter how loud you are, or how quiet you are. It must just be the flowers.
They look like a 13-year-old girl's experiment with make-up.
And they smell like dust in your nose.
Follow the road north to the pharmacy and the convenience store
Conveniently next to a windowless brothel and an indie movie theater.
Follow it south and you'll get an organic market, loose tea shops, and gelato.
Funny how that happens.
If you stand on this corner you'll see cars lining the street in every direction
Squealing and shaking with each extra body shoved inside to enjoy the beautiful dumpster view.
And maybe a pool that no one uses.
There's a complex on the corner of three streets where Atlas goes to shrug his shoulders.
And complain about how heavy his job is.
Loudly tending to his messed up joints.
Drinking with passers-by and sleeping with women who came by to massage his limbs.
Gently, tenderly, and maybe a bit rough every now and then.
Atlas lives, owns, and runs this whole **** town.
And let me tell you, he's in great shape.

He's a writer for sure
Every ounce of him.
That's why he stopped
Drinking wine,
Except for Wednesdays
Of course.
He has a taste for
Cigarettes and the hard stuff.
The stuff that's going
To make him forget
About all the things
He's going to write about in the morning.
But really,
How could he forget
Every single moment
Of his entire life.
He's not arrogant
But **** the devil if he's humble.
No, he's just used to
Being kicked in the face.
And he's good at it.
So why stop now?
Every morning is a hangover
And every night
Is another reason
To write down everything
Because **** everyone
Who tells him no
He's too **** good at it.
Let's drink to that tonight.

This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.

I don't paint.
But tonight, in the crowd.
Amid the drunk beards and the gentle, bobbing women.
With cell-phones seen raised in the air from every angle and every perspective.
While five men in hats danced and sang on a stage.
Light beamed from their faces and the ground shook with every kick of the drum.
My father on one side, my sister on the other.
My body moving left and right.
My hand on my chest and my lungs on fire
My eyes closed and my chin up.
I wore a sweater with a paint stain on the sleeve.

I am not beautiful. Just simple.
Made plainly of laughter and tears.
I wear knit sweaters in the snow
Shorts in the heat
And a dress to church on Sundays.
I have no battle scars
I bear no cross
I am basic and mild.
But you are a hurricane
On the most beautiful beach I've ever seen.

I want to kiss you softly and often.
Every moment of every day for the rest of my life if I could
I'd pull you as close to me as possible.
I'd grab your hands and put them around my waist
And taste your lips over and over again until they're all I remember.
When I'm not with you I want to dream of you holding me
Against your chest, feeling it rise and fall with every nervous breath
That sneaks out of your lungs
Through those beautiful lips of yours.
I want to lose myself to thoughts of you taking me by the hands
And fight loving you with everything I have.
I want to lose
Myself
In the way you kiss me sweetly and hold me tenderly.
In the way you've already kissed me sweetly
And held me gently, softly, warmly, kindly that one night.
I want to hate you. But more than that.
More than your lips, arms, eyes, smile, breath
I want to love you as wonderfully as a girl can love a boy
Beautiful and innocent until no more.

People don't die beautifully for living plainly.
The most gorgeous deaths stem from lives made entirely of chafing and scratching
At the eyes of bystanders and the legs of elites pushing pencils and having babies.
Women do not make history sleeping in the arms of men
That stroke their hair and tell them they're beautiful.
Nor do they change the course of a nation by smiling at those they're told to smile at,
By following rules and setting limits on their intellect and imagination.
Likewise men do not make history kneeling in front of a stone with the word destiny written in repetition
On its surface.
Men do not alter reality by being societal representations of men. Of trees. Of beasts.
Men, and women, who make history,
Who have died beautifully, tragically, desperately,
Have died in incredible circumstances. Have been remembered
For being a thorn in the side or the splinter in the eye of the path laid out by reality
So every breath and every sight was them. Pestering.
Until they could no longer be tolerated.
That's when they were remembered.

Please let me write this out
So when my mind drifts to the two of us
Even I can't deny how I'd love to breathe you in.
You are fascinating.
Fuming.
Fearless.
Cold, dense, brilliant and strong.
Dark and deep like a cave.
You're cool like the ocean during a hurricane.
You panic like a raft in the sea
Without a paddle, drifting
Close to shore.
How can I ask you to follow me home
And let me take care of you.
My favorite story
Who knows the ending.
Let me read in peace.
I can't deny that when my mind drifts to the two of us,
We're on an adventure
Somewhere we've never been
Without time or reason.
But that will never be.
Not as long as you sit in a fuming, fascinating
Deep, dark cave
Where I cannot come get you.

He ferociously chained himself to the wrong fence
Protesting a battle that never happened on a ground that never wept.
The fence was glad for company she kept the battle raging
The blind protester yelled and screamed and chained himself more tightly.
And the ground stained with blood of soldiers
Fruitless, scarred and dead
Watched the blind protester weep and watched the land smile at her instead.
The ******* limps towards the sea to drown before she dies.
As the land the protester missed did flee
From all the fences lies.
And weep she did the land did weep and lament the passing friend.
As the protester blindly yelled in pain until the very end.

You are standing on top of Holy ground
Because it's here that tears were seen crawling down her cheeks.
And emotions moved through her like tidal waves
Destroy simple pleasures.
Yes you are perched calmly on top of the place where her soul disappeared
Dissipated into smoke and flames
Danced towards heaven and hell with a passion unmatched by anything on earth.
Yet all you do is stand with your head down counting tiles.
Looking at the man in front of you waiting for him to move
Waiting for fifteen minutes to pass like an airplane passes through a cloud.
Waiting until you can go home to the life you've made for yourself.
You are standing on Holy ground.
Shield your eyes and take off your shoes before the power
Of the one tear shed for everything you are not.

He was writing the greatest love letter of all time
Because, he said, it was about the greatest woman to walk the Earth
And how she single-handedly melted the world and buckled knees with her stare.
Had a smile that made you feel things with senses you couldn't begin to understand.
He was writing her a love letter with words
That were the most horribly inadequate words to describe her.
Words like beautiful, special, life-changing, perfect.
The love letter he would never finish because of her brilliance.
A love letter thrown away when he saw her holding hands with a man.
And replaced with tears and floral arrangements.
The greatest love note ever written became his entire life
Left in a box
Six feet underground.

A storm to a ship is both a marvelous adventure and a cruel end of times.
And she, still six feet under, staring through the watery mirror, does not control the ocean.
But he, with his magic, shakes the earth miles beneath the surface and throws the ship to the tide.
She watches him soar with love in his eyes and believes he's passionately and desperately searching for her
With her stitched up soul and the words hanging grossly from her lips.
Hope falters as the ship sinks and he laughs.

The crew sat silently in a room with blank walls and one television playing football.
While on the other side of the universe their spouses lounged in a beige wonderland.
Who would have imagined one day the screaming would lead to betrayal of the one sense that does not exist.
She got stitches on her soul where he tore her apart, he used scissors to cut them open.
But who stands on a pedestal and lets their heart bleed out all the words they long to say?
But who cuts themselves open with a rusty knife infected with the pain of all the others,
Just to say they did it for you.
She instead watched from this beige wonderland, lounging and laughing
Her heart shrink down to the size of his. To become a pebble. Hard as a rock, small as a fly.
Crying tears to narrate the nights when even one feeling was too much for her.

Dogs say nothing
Of the nine lives of cats.
Cats only whine for food and for sleep.

The words jumped her barbed wire lips and were mangled in the most grotesque and unimaginable way
Escaping restriction to find themselves mangled, left inside out hanging by their own tongues
Off the edge of sanity dripping into forever.
Dipping a toe into the beautiful sorrow that is memory
Tears taste like wine and gin. Words smell like hangovers and violins.
Hearts ache like muscles sore from stretching for so long without use.
And Sundays like porcelain and donuts.

Timid as she was, a mouse holed down six feet in the ground hiding
From the snake he was. From the beast he was.
She found herself a fascinated corpse of desire and anguish.
A man five foot ten. Standing six feet off the ground. Staring at her through the water.
Asking her what. Asking her why. Asking her emptiness.
Look at me. Face me. Do you not know what I want.
He would not wrestle her to the ground she was already a part of, covered in worms and critters.
He would not hold any part of her tenderly, gently, sweetly.
He would only face her and stare into her eyes, barely brushing his lips against hers slowly.
At first slowly, at first timidly. At first almost sweetly.
And then she turned away from the emptiness in his eyes.