Just remember
everyone loves conflict
in one way or another

He would stand in the doorway every morning if it meant he could
Memorize the way she cradled the coffee in both of her hands.
And how her mouth kissed her cup hello, still too hot to drink.
He hated how the sunrise always ran over her face before he could even open his eyes to watch her breathe in the day,
But she made up for it in how her feet never truly touched the ground
And her perfume took residence in his pillow so even when she left
She was still there.
It wasn’t hard for him to realize that she was as much a part of his home as the socks that always found their way back under the bed.
And he’d never be able to look at that old, goodwill coffee machine again
Without thinking of the weight of her presence rising and falling on his chest.

He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?

My town.
a lonely place
full of the drunk
and the depressed

the fat belcher
coming home from the bar
at 11pm
rambling nonsense and nothings
to the moon and stars
because no one ever listens anymore

teenagers walking
down cobbled streets
at midnight
thinking about how easy
it would be to disappear
because no one misses them yet

the party-hards
blaring music through windows
at 1 in the morning
to distract themselves
from the monsters in their head
because the sound is an antidote

and the observers, like me
who sit and watch
at every hour of every night
and see the nooks and crevices
in this broken little town
and here we sit
typing away our little report
of the drunk and the depressed

we're not like them, no.
we can't be.
not in this
lonely
little
town.

.
you tell yourself they love you
                         but they tie you to a pyre
                                               and they set you
                                                             ­        *ablaze