Yes, That's where you
were, across a field against
a window, a bare chest with
an ungodly blue arm stretched
up your right shoulder, laying
untruthful fingers on your chest
and the light fell against your face
in blue shadows that lit when
lightening struck. I backed away
slowly because you were only a

predator.

I once wrote something in his
diary for my birthday, but I
actually read a page or two
of his life. A particular story
in which he wrote, all I
want to do is wake up
and make her breakfast,
that is my dream and at
the time all I could do was
smile. I wish I had written
more, but don't we all?

Your name is scribbled
on the back of everything
every paper, every painting
every picture, inside the tins
and under caps, in books
and posters, why could
you not love me the
way I wanted you
to? why did you
have to become
the very thing
I cannot
stand? why
can't I just
let go of
someone
that did
not care
for me
at
all?

dim car, orange shadows
the radio is fuzzy but we
still sing the words, and the
telephone wires are licorice
strings against the moon.
the 7-eleven is a lime in the
distance, a buzzing machine
over aisles of bugles and salted
pretzels basking beneath the
heated lamps. Occasionally
I can feel a road-trip in my
bones filled with endless
nights of my bare feet
on the cool dashboard
curling against the
pane, steady breath
steady breath, and
at least someone
beside me.