somewhere between silence and speech
there must be a place where broken words go
full of stutters and writers block sufferers
somewhere between the "i love" and the "you" that never followed
or the "wait" that was whispered into the air

there must be a place where broken words go
the words spoken but never listened to  
the letters written but never sent
the train of thought that crashed into the clouds
the words in the bottle that traveled the sea
but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach

there must be a place where broken words go
there must be a place i can call home

november
his words came out like a lemming of
forceful regrets
and my phrases were hell bent on the
destruction of themselves

                     *it's decemeber now
                     you've only been gone for a month
                     and i can move furniture around as
                     much as i'd like, and you'd still
                     bounce off the cushions

if the Everything of cigarette smoke
and cheap cologne speak
as loudly as temptation
as brightly as your abdomen, stretched
like the bonds of linen across rooftops

                     that shade these lonely streets
                     then i will seek the promises you
                     left behind
                     and a late night motel
                     *to bore me in your absence

the waves rushed about his soul
while i drifted perilously in the deluge
all the while wondering what monsters swam below

how badly i wanted to conquer this mess
this disastrous mess- lightening in his eyes
thunder in his voice

i knew that the blood of the gods
still pumped through his veins,
but i was still a woman adrift
(how the hell did i not drown?)

i longed to calm his tempest,
but i wanted to feel his rage just as bad
this was a crime

i almost always desire the blue seas,
the ones seen in magazines
but instead i found myself
living with a hurricane
who saved me

you won't find me sitting and watching the stars
i am up here
painting them into the sky
i painted mercury, i created mars
ceres, pluto, and eris are nothing less
than the brilliant blues i smeared across the heavens
the ocean's windstorms were produced by myself as well
a watercolor gone wrong
the mess that i am
who knew disasters
were capable of shading the complexity in the sky
morning and night?
while you are sitting and watching the stars
i am up here
painting them into the sky