our dads left
matching bruises
where our hearts
should be

and when you kissed me
i realized all those lullabies?
they'd never fixed me
touching bruises with love --
or otherwise
only makes us blue

i'm sorry, so sorry
we should have been
something beautiful.

if i hadn't already used up
all my kisses on missing you
i'd make it better.

i write about wanting to
see you
talk to you
be with you

but in actuality
if i ever had the chance
i'd run in the opposite direction

because you'd be
all too
real.

Little blue, little blue.
Picked up in the night.
3am may be black but

8 is sure bright.

My fingers are just
a concept.
My mind,
a theory.



(my skin:
papyrus)

You said you were drafted
and I
misunderstood.
For a fleeting second I almost thought
that I could pull you out of my drafts, polish you, and publish you.

Letters left me last June
and I soon found myself sticking my finger into the flame
and even touching fire I still don't feel that spark
It's not the same.
It's not the same.
So I stick my head, my shoulders, and my name
into fire.
But still
No desire.

i just want to sit and be
still with you, but
my heart never slows
when you're around and
i always end up searching
dead ends for what words
to use next

(my fingers still shake at the
mention of your name)