everything is on the table now

matches. kerosene. pen.
paper.

I wrote to you. I swear,
I did.

I wrote your name over
and over until my wrists
ached.

couldn't ever get much
further than that.

you know something, though?
I can't even remember your face.

I remember the scars on your arms
and the freckles on your belly.

I can hear your laugh, I can feel
your skin beneath my palms.

but I can't remember your face.
and it all feels so meaningless now.

because I wrote you that poem once,
and I know you never read it.
the one where I loved you more with
each passing night and I was so afraid
you weren't even missing me at all

and it's all so different now. so much better,
and so much uglier.

I can't lie, because you're right. because
you know me better than anyone.
and it's a god awful feeling to be tired
of someone you love. to not remember
the lines of their face, or the light
in their eyes.

I owe you more than that. I deserve
better than this.

and the ****** up thing about all this babe
is I still haven't written you that letter.
I still don't have any answers.

because I'm empty and angry and
you're lost and lonely and we're miles
apart. might as well be universes.

and I have this fantasy where everything
happened so much better, it happened
right and we were better people and
god it's so beautiful but it's just a *******
fantasy.

because it's four in the morning and
that **** table is on fire
and I'm here typing away at some stupid
poem you're never going to read and
you're waiting for my response to your
gut-wrenching messages.

and I don't understand how we got
here. I don't understand how love
has to ******* up so badly, how
loving someone so much can
never be enough. how you can weather
storm after storm and disaster
after disaster together and still be left
with empty hands and broken hearts.

I used to make wishes at 11:11,
I used to pick up pennies,
holding them tight for luck.
I used to believe in fate.
I used to believe that good things
happened to good people.

there's a word for people like that: naive.
because, "the truth is,
baby, the world is a cruel place."
he told me he was saving me,
sort of like saving a suicide
victim from a moving train.

because he told me he loved me,
because he told me the world was mine.
because he told me he'd do anything for me.
and I believed him.

there's this moment after happiness has settled into every crevice of your body where panic sets in because

everything must fall eventually.

somewhat like a condemned house. once, it contained love and family and happiness. there's that word again.

eventually, everything settles.
everything unsettles.
happiness is fleeting -
and so, too, is sadness.

but at least, in despair,
there's is only better to come.
happiness is not so kind.

sometimes the broken pieces don’t fit,
they don’t go back together
like perfect puzzles made of glass.

sometimes you try to put the
pieces back together, and you come
away with ****** fingers

and jars full of jagged edges
and missing shards,
nothing like the pieces of art they once were.

between the lines of us,
affection dissolved –
I love you I love you,
I do.

but what happens when
love blends with anger?
what happens when loyal eyes
wander?

what happens when lonely
ships drift into distant shores
because the other islands
have long since emptied?

Sinews and strands
Interwoven memories
Thoughts and dreams
Of both love and loss

Dark constellations
Bound in flesh and blood
The reality of self
Hidden behind consciousness

The only true way to know
Of one's existence
Is to peer deep down
Into the darkness

And find that wicker flame
Ever fragile and fading
A single light among the void
That is the human soul