Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

Power
went off
we lit the moon..

when your words intend to impart advice
or new direction towards a better day
tell me through your story

not some short collection of words
that ring pretty in my ears
or look as if they carry weight

when your words are short and sweet
and their poignancy implies reverence
i will struggle to understand

because i know that sugar can cause rot
and i know, time spent alone in the dark
is how we learn what shadows hide

please tell me more than one line
of some truth you came across
i will listen, if you sell me more than candy

the leaves rustle in the cold
and settle to a stillness
i do not know
the sounds afar carry throughout
the night with winds and light
while the leaves and stillness
settle above, still i do not know
above and through
i hear it still
the silence, i do not know