So much to do but I’m mourning…
     Mourning.
Maybe it’ll get done in the morning

Good morning! you’re tuned into Power105–
  5-
  6-
November 6th
     —been a month already.

I’m still not ready to get up at 5
To speak at 6 in the morning…
      Dua Lipa doesn’t help the mourning.

It must be hidden in the spaces between:
all the things you never said—

Secret.

I feel about for signs of life—
An ember, an impression of a feeling;
Dust drifting off a thought
Ash floating off some feverish flame shyly
wafting through the open air, so
    Unassuming. It burns anyway(regardless).

My fingers grapple for the braille
That cryptic shape of you—

To me you are an amputated limb
Twitching in the ghostly space you used to be
(I could have sworn-)

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.

You laughed
but i didn't get the joke-
you always were the funny one
and i'm a child with a big mouth,
spewing words that taste like a summer
that was lovely-only-in-retrospect,
built on the backs of elephantine promises
never meant to be honored;
in fact, darling,
we poached them straight into extinction.
And I'm still waiting on the punchline.

I wonder sometimes at the ghosts that haunt your soul
Do you give them names?
Do you cower in their shade?
Do they whisper sweet nothings inside of you
waking echoes, long forgotten
like the artifacts of ancient loves?
Do you tie them down with weights for them to sink
into the dark
so those who seek them out should drown
before they ever reach your depths?
I would tell you that I am not afraid-
neither of the dark nor of the tides.
I only wish I could make friends
with the phantoms acting the part of you,
and soothe the storms that sink your spirit.

"Pyrophyte: a plant which has adapted to tolerate fire."

I try my best to fend off
these hungry jaws as they grow angry and lash out,
rising up from the dark to spite
the brave few sprouts of daylight
that dare to peak out of the night.
I want to let them starve in the shadows-
that shady selfish love that could never feed itself.
Let them rest
and rot and fester in their loneliness
til the bones are picked clean
and it can be beautiful again—
buds sprouting up from the wicked
black bones of a fire where once was a bountiful forest
and will be again

If I took off my skin
Maybe then I could feel beautiful.
I would change it every day
Like ***** laundry-
Hang it out to dry a while
And not fret for the neighbor's eyes.
I'd cut it into shapes
That don't fit quite so tightly
Or open up a window
And let a bit of air in
(I know me well enough-
I'd hold my breath.)