He said he liked her style
and her pianist fingers.
She told him that he could paint her
onto canvas, in shades
of cinnamon and ivory.

He laughed at her trembling hands
as she sat there, dressed in naught
but peonies and wild roses.
She scowled at his impudence
and then laughed
at the absurdity of it all.

She sat there and he told her
hold still
with a smile that flashed
across his eyes like quicksilver.

She watched him create poetry
with strokes of umber and chartreuse,
cerulean and scarlet.
He pulled the shadows from her eyes
and placed them into a fixed state of being.

She watched the metamorphosis of scars
into moonlit fault lines and
freckles into blips of smooth paint.

He transformed her pale outline
into a sensuous display of smooth gradients
and colors deep enough to make men weep.
He captured the penumbra of sorrow
and spread it across her painted eyes.

As he anointed the canvas
with delicate finishing touches,
She dressed in a paint-spattered shirt
and marveled at the uncanny likeness.

They sat and watched the paint dry
as he rubbed the knots from her shoulders
and kissed strained tendons and ligament
beneath innocuous flesh,
as she tapped rhythms into his hands.

He is no longer hers to consume.
He belongs now to the kingdom of earthworms
and a darkness that swallows all traces of light.
He took with him the chunk of her
that knew how to love as a human
and left her with shirts devoid of his form
and gradually losing his scent,
fragmented memories that slip
through fingers like sand,
and a room full of paintings
that she cannot bring herself
to uncover.

She dances on the rooftops.
The tar and cobblestone: her truest stage.
She'll never fail her public; the stars gaze with adoration,
And dance for them until the curtain calls.

She dances on the rooftops,
The ledges drawing near.
The storm clouds utter their applause.
The crescendo drives her on.

She dances on the rooftops,
Wielding a pistol and her pills.
The sky demands she take a bow,
Before the pavement-curtain falls.

He might still think about you each night
That reminds him of the ones you used to share.
He probably is just too scared,
To tell you he still cares.
Even in the first place,
He never once said
"I care about you".
That doesn't mean he never felt it,
And it doesn't mean he ever stopped
Loving the way you laughed,
Joked around with his friends,
And held his hand too tight.
He probably still wants to wrap his arms around you
And take you to the movie theater.
He still thinks about the way you made him feel.
That you made him feel at all.
He's still there,
He's just scared that you're not.

In the crisp morning air I breath deep and stand at the bridge looking out to the sea.
The rocks will never mean the same thing and the sand will never again belong to me.
Light from the sun rises but it will never be like the dawn before.
No one is here but me and the wind seeps through my jacket and into my bones.
I remember when I sat waiting for her to awake and the times we all sat and waited for nothing,
but now I wait for the past as the future brings me the present.
Yet, nothing can compare to what has already been shared and because of that I sit and think of how I long for yesterday.

She lit a cigarette. It made a whispering inhale and exhaled a thin white thread of smoke. The woman smoked, despite that she never really liked neither the scent that stayed on her skin and clothes, nor the effect of nicotine, which was lost after a couple of packs. One day she started smoking to manifest her freedom, today she is smoking to entertain herself. It is entertaining for her to exhale white clouds out of lips and try to recognize a moments of innocent happiness in them. Each moment spent with a cigarette reminded about all other moments, which were earlier, younger...
She inhaled again and in the exhale smiled. The white mist coming out of her red lips looked magically. But it was not the cigarettes; it was her special elite beauty that made the bench she was sitting on so attractive… expensive.
Today she was in black. Luxurious half dark stockings with a black line, shining spike heels, a strict skirt and a costume, which accurately underlined her breast, in a way that gives to any passing by man an insuperable longing to undo one more button, just one more button…
If I said that her face was beautilful, that would mean nothing. The beauity of her face could be equal only to the sensation of a hot chocolate on a tip of your tongue.
Smooth, white skin, without any face’ powder. Skin that would make you touch it, and slide through it with your cheek, to find out if it is real, or to feel how real it is… Just that would be a best psychotherapy that nobody ever offered you.
What does she want?  What she doesn’t need, it’s an attention… She is hungry for something sincere that rises right from depth of the soul, nurtured by warmth of the heart, delivered by the means of good thoughts and sensible words that would nurture and cure her heart… But all she has it is smoke of the cigarette. What an unfair trade…
She smiled again. What is she thinking about? May be about the age when she was a little girl and promised her mom to be a good girl. Or about a little boy who was the first to say that loves her... and the last man who meant it... or meant it in the way she needs it now. She remembered how she used to sleep cuddling with her dad, a man of the strong cologne, big hands and passionate embrace. Oh, how she wanted just to sleep next to somebody like her dad… Strong, warm, silent, sincere…
She is not smiling… Please don’t cry. Don’t cry. Client is coming…
-Hello, How are you?
-I’m perfect today! What about you?
-Apartments are there, how much is one hour?...

I am greedy, angry, needy
for the feel of your soft breathing
easing through my freezing lips.
Self destructive thoughts I'm feeling;
for your heart is an intriguing contrast
to the fleeting sense of beating
in this black hole in my chest,
sinking underneath the feeble sense
of overheated thinking for
why you treat me like your dearest,
not a whispered, awkward greeting
or a bleeding, broken weakling.
Though, if you ever came to leaving
I'd be grieving for the teasing thought
of believing that my life
once had a beaming sense of meaning.

I started missing you today
I usually don't miss people because missing people is weird and sad
and I already have enough negativity in my head
when you whisper hello
and make me turn my head
and remind me
Then I get this ticking sound in the back of my head
and I keep telling my feet it's time to turn around
but then I remember
that even if I started walking
I would never find you
and then the itch comes back
and the tick turns into a beat
then I realize its a mix of my heartbeat
and me repeatedly punching the wall or my head
maybe if I could feel that'd clear that part up
and I remember the questions
I needed to ask you about math class
and I remember your little sister
telling me that you had a crush on me
and to keep it a secret
and I remember the swing set we pushed her on
and the only thing I can't remember is
when you told me you loved me
but I know you did
because I told you I loved you too
and I still do love you
and I know I should remember that
above everything else but I don't
and I'm sorry
I'm so sorry for everything
I'm sorry I didn't help you cheat on that test
and I'm sorry I didn't save you a seat at lunch that one time
and I'm sorry I forgot to study with you the other night
and I'm sorry I let you walk home because I was mad at you
and I'm sorry I let that car be the last thing to kiss you

t.w