Where are the love letters written by him during the wee hours of the morning with his mind slightly addled with alcohol that says he loved ******* her raw and he also loved her desperately?

Where are the love songs that were sappy but genuine and Ella Fitzgerald's voice that talked of dreaming and loving and living?

Where are the stolen kisses under trees and the flowers that wilted the next day and the girls giggling under blankets talking about fingers slipping under skirts and first times?

Lost. Gone. Probably forgotten.

she liked

the idea of

being consumed

she sometimes dreamed of

being devoured

by the dark

and then she’d wake up

and realize

it wasn’t a

dream

the bittersweet taste

of a last kiss

will always be fresh on my lips

the press of mouth on mouth

the battling of tongues

using saliva and passion

to say goodbye

his scent

still lingers in

the deepest corners of

my mind and

sometimes i take it

out to smell it only

to realize

i smell nothing

because i couldn’t remember

anymore

an open book

on the desk

clothes strewn

across the floor

a fine layer of dust

covering the

surfaces

a bed not made

but made love in

this is our love nest

and we love

all day

the rain dances tonight

its soft legs gliding

through the night

and i dance with it

my skin wet

from its exuberance

she liked

the idea of

being consumed

she sometimes dreamed of

being devoured

by the dark

and then she’d wake up

and realize

it wasn’t a

dream

Our bodies were

intertwined

He held me close

It was getting late

I had to wake up

and leave

the empty bed

(I was late for work)

she liked

the idea of

being consumed

she sometimes dreamed of

being devoured

by the dark

and then she’d wake up

and realize

it wasn’t a

dream

We meet in the middle.

Always in the middle.

But this time.

You walk right out of the platform.

Onto the busy street.

And left me.

Standing in the middle.

We lay like that for a few moments,

him on top of me

his flaccid **** between my thighs

Our sweat mingling

And it dawned on me

That I could never

love anyone

more

The girl with red hair, she would lie in the grass all day, she said it was better than any bed.

The girl with red hair, she painted her nails purple once, because it was bright like her hair.

The girl with red hair, she wanted to be the heroine of a story but thought she wasn’t too brave.

The girl with red hair, she’d stare at the wall and when people asked her why she’d say “The walls tell stories, you know.”

The girl with red hair, she claims she has never fallen in love, she believed she was incapable of loving.

The girl with red hair, she would read a book in one sitting, she said it was easier to absorb and forget it that way.

The girl with red hair, she didn’t believe in a higher being but said if there was one, he would probably be a poet.

The girl with red hair, she felt confined all her life, like flames caught between the walls of a fireplace.

The girl with red hair, she ran away when she was twenty-five and left a blank note with her name on the bottom.

The girl with red hair, she would send postcards every week, and when one day she didn’t, they knew she was gone.

That fateful night

Your arms around me

I felt safe

Ohh, let’s go back

Your fingertips caressing my face

How could I ever forget that?

Your voice sent shivers along my spine

And then you left

I waited for you

I thought that maybe you’d choose me

Choose love, Choose life

With a beer in hand, I’ll always remember

Your face as you said goodbye

The bittersweet kiss

My heart’s death

And these nights I lay in bed

in the dark

marveling at how empty I feel

and consumed by the thought of feeling alive again

I want to feel free

I want to run

But I know that if I do run



I’ll still feel dead

Changing stations. Trying to look for something that makes sense.

Nothing makes sense anymore. The voices.

Coldplay.

Next.

Sean Kingston.

Next.

No, no song can describe what I’m feeling now.