Microwaves are better in the daytime
where there is noise to block the beeping
and sound to mask the hum.
No one is awake but me
as the frozen Indian food heats up
at a time too late for dinner.

I pass the minutes,
watching the blinking countdown,
thinking of all the chances you had to kiss me.

Singing bells tell the sun to sleep
an empty street is suddenly full
lives continue in the bustling crowd
the sky blushes indigo.

An empty street is suddenly full
sirens blare and people scream
the sky blushes indigo
smoke billows and fire rages on.

Sirens blare and people scream
twisted metal and blood
smoke billows and fire rages on
I feel the crisping heat on my skin.

Twisted metal and blood
is this the true meaning of horror?
I feel the crisping heat on my skin
I cannot tell if it is imaginary.

Is this the true meaning of horror?
Everything spins,
I cannot tell if it is imaginary.
The monster prowls towards me as I run in vain.

Everything spins,
I skitter along the ground
The monster prowls towards me as I run in vain.
nature takes it’s course.

I skitter along the ground
brushing leaves with my golden touch
nature takes its course
a new seasons spring up below me

Brushing leaves with my golden touch
life and death swirl and switch,
a new season springs up below me
the cold watches from the shadows, waiting.

Life and death swirl and switch,
lives continue in the bustling crowd
the cold watches from the shadows, waiting
singing bells tell the sun to sleep.

Nothing is wrong.
No I am not lying.
I will sit inside my room
and listen to sad songs
with no reason for the pit inside my chest.

I.
Your name when I talk to you
is your full one
carefully formal.
Acquaintances are fragile
like paper cranes, easily ripped.

II.
Fragility is smothered
by a comfortable warmth
now I see only your first name when we speak.
I pour my thoughts out to you.

III.
I learn more about your life
the shards stuck in your heart
the cracks in your soul
I try my best to heal them with my awful jokes
and scattered hugs.

IV.
I change your name again
you are now a silly nickname
thought up in some late night conversation
about future and family and fears.

V.
You sit across the table from me
I call you my best friend and you laugh,
but I know I mean as much to you
as you do to me.

In the pale gray hours of the morning
when the sky is lightly dipped in ink
and I am fresh from dreaming,
I lie awake and search my ceiling
for the outline of your face.

I find it woven in my curtains
and etched into my door.
You are folded in my blankets
and gleaming in the weak sunlight through my window.

The words from nights before float between us
I remember you.