he listens to the treble of her voice—
and the silent ghost of the sounds that
fail to make it past her lips;
wanting nothing more than to dissect
the words of woe that weigh her heart
with a bitter aftertaste, like a
liter of ***** on a friday night,
because words were never made
to be swallowed whole and love
was, in no way, ever meant to be simple.
as the minutes go by he comes to
recall that despair is never a constant

sixty weeks living typical
scholarship school days, lonely.
lights of bubble rabbits,
a bath of wild flowers ­
two or six or three
blossoming poems about
sequence and roses
debts from our bones,
stars singing in our blood

Be my moon,
And I will be your sun.

She hid herself— refusing to be
bound to a life of melting when
was made to stand out.
Her flare shines ever so scarcely,
in hopes to be found by a star
that wouldn’t smother her.

He whispers into the darkness,
in hopes that in the solitude of
her frigid fortress won’t shatter
the words before her heart can.
Believing that he could show her a
rainbow without snuffing her out.

Lucy; a name bestowed
Upon me by someone who
Considered my nature to be
Inviting — for kindness was
Far too boring to
Entertain a friendship worth
Remembering

she became invisible to
his eyes because he was out
looking, for a light that shined
just as bright as the gem that
turned his somber nights into
a radiant daybreak that paints
his skies with royalty. he turned
moth to flame for a fair-haired girl
with cobalt spheres; a face that
was there when she wanted him.
she became nourishment for
his soul because on those somber
evenings, he always sought out
for her; a daydream of a damsel
with ebony abraded into her bones
because she hid from the limelight
when she had wildfires running in
her veins glowing; a face that
was there when he wanted her.
but she captured his heart because
it knew that even the sun can’t
wash the moon out against the blue
unless it decides to disappear

Baby, it is cold outside
but I don’t want to go home.
Winter wasn’t made for memories
and moments weren't made to last.
Keeping Christmas-safe each city block
for I am almost done ageing.
a possibility made of glass,
a relationship never made to last.
Please, don’t let me down.
you once told me, to believe that
winter was a wonderland
but death would be a great adventure.
I find it hard to write;
these memories will never fade.