for some reason
small pieces of hope
continue to float
in my direction

you give me a reason
to hang by the throat
when you say "i won't
come back in your direction"

tomorrow is when all the things i write come true.

we'll wake up

smiling, and you'll say       it's happening

and i'll say yes,
quickly.

tomorrow there will be stains and spills

in the bed,
in our bed,     because we won't care
because we never ever have

tomorrow

i will touch your skin
and it won't feel so dangerous. tomorrow

the sun will come and

we'll know it's

just

for us

tomorrow

hasn't come yet        but sometimes        it feels like it's already

here.

tomorrow

hasn't come    yet

and we can't   say   that it certainly
will.

there were many long hard nights

you had to remind yourself to breathe


but there were one thousand more nightmares

telling you to hold your breath

She

is a song he plays with closed eyes,

heartbreaking and angry,

volumes of many shameful pasts

singing through her chest.


She

is a book he reads with open hands,

her stories scrawled into skin,

like a braille

only he can speak.


She

is the box in which he keeps his heart,

****** and beating

trusting that it's safe.

the knives

in this house

are sharper

since you left

the bed

harder

my dreams

darker