When tea time has been reduced to nothing,
but a phase and scones aren't even
a conversation piece anymore, when the kettle
has been robbed of its violet hues in place of
rust, when the last guest to pass through
the door was your brother, three years ago

will you finally miss me or any
of the moments we shared?

And when Loneliness falls for Sorrow
will you be reminded of our final
cups of tea or the fact our final words
were not of finality or even giddy irony
at all, but instead talk of who would
sweep away the crumbs and wash
the dishes once fire and ice had

stolen the once currently
sitting on the table top.

When tea time has been reduced to nothing,
what will these breadcrumbs bring you?

I always love when days get
so long and tragically dark that
we believe we can see the stars.

It's moments in life like that that we have to thank
for our growth. I find it inspiring that emptiness and fear
are brave enough to offer us a chance to question
and test our faith - I know what you're about to say
and yes, I am writing this at 2 a.m. while doing that exact
thing (questioning. Testing). But what kind of artist would I
be if I banished my starside rants from these hallowed pages
of clarity and what would I gain from my poetic

therapy sessions if I didn't at least try to make
something more stunning than roses or moons
from my pain? So allow me, if you will, to return
to my point. Because as people - nothing more than
the atoms that form the elements of our societies,

we crave friction and contact, balance and gentleness.
We must be reminded that others out there have felt
what we are feeling when we feel it. We must know
that never in any second of time will we ever be
truly alone. I have noticed something fascinating
in the way humans manage to be stars (fueled
and passionate) and snowflakes (frigid and stoic)
all at once - without ever so much as batting an eyelash

and no matter how horrible we feel or how dark
the sky gets we will Always remain more radiant
than the sun and more complex than any universe.

And it's always thoughts like this
that get me through the days
when I forget how to breathe.

There's mascara running down the folds of my faded pillow
and it's not that anything is even that wrong. Please,
don't think that I'm one of those attention seeker types,
because that's not it at all - I swear. Or is this one of those
moments where "thou doth protest too much" makes perfect sense?

I remember nibbling on your shoulder, starving for your attention
and now I wonder if you've ever needed anything from me
with enough fervor and ferocity to actually beg for it (me). I wonder
if the single drops that quenched my parched lips so effortlessly
when you weren't around have ever been enough for you.

And I know it's sad to say this since I fought you every time you tried
but I miss the potential of having a light something to eat or drink
while indulging in a conversation more hearty than I could ever be.
The fact that there are no guests knocking on the door at three
in the afternoon or even at three o' five breaks my heart.

So here I am, alone, waiting for the violet kettle to whistle
with a tray full of cobalt speckled blueberry scones and airy white,
sweet cream to balance out the **** of fruit picked too early -
or maybe it's only there to subdue the pain of opinions varied from your own.
Either way, it is enticing and I wish it could do its job more properly.

Slowly, I'll stir the milk and two sugars into the dark mixture
watching the shapes play leap frog in awkward motion,
humming along with the delicate, lacey clink of the metal spoon
chiming against the porcelain cup. It's just not the same
now that I know that not everyone has to make do with

breadcrumbs.

I need you
to know that you
are a spider just
sitting in your web,

waiting for some
unfortunate soul
to join you; to be
intrigued, to
submit itself
to your
chaos

merely for your entertainment.

I need you
to know that you
are a spider and
I am a fly,
but someday
our roles will
be revised.

I hope you enjoyed feasting
on my heart and any
fragments of my soul
you were able to grasp
because the day
I manage to get
the first taste
of you

will be the sweetest
I've ever known
alongside the
most glorious
revenge
possible.

I.
...I often wish someone would
love me enough to make me melt
from the inside out. No, I'm not suicidal
I just want the bliss and joy of being in love.
But who would be stupid enough
to love someone they
can't touch?

II.
...There are many days when
I don't want to get up or to get out
of the house. Not because I'm scared
or anything - I just feel too pretty for all
the chaos and hate in this
disgusting place.

III.
...I like to believe I am
a teddy bear - a child's favorite toy.
Every night I help someone fall asleep
and there's always someone out there
pouring their whole heart out to me.
I pretend that I'm soft like
my heart and that I can be
loved just as much as I love
those around me.

IV.
...There are more times than
I care to count when all I wanted was
to be the reason for your smile. I make
children jump for joy when school is canceled
because of me and the elderly are envious of my beauty -
but you, you're different. I hate the sun for
making you happier than I can.

We were young, you pressed flowers while I
attempted poetry. It was a long time ago, almost
like another life I never lived. You looked at me
with the devil's eyes and said, "You can be
the angel kissin' on a sinner and I'll be the boy
on the porch steps drawing the map that'll get us
out of here someday."

"It'll be harmless fun," you smiled, but you didn't know
what fun is back then. You were the angel kissin' on me.
I guess that makes me the sinner, I was hardly in high school
and already tainted by lust, painted black, and splattered
with red. But I didn't tell you because I knew what you'd say.

We were young, you pressed flowers while I
attempted poetry. Hiding in a red leather diary.
If only you could see now the secrets that pages made
of stardust could keep when a person's young but not free.
I remember the way you used stones to write my name
on the beach and hope to etch my face in the snow.

That was when being in love was easy - all you had to do
was smile and say the words everyone else was saying.
when kissing was cute and running away together was sweet.
It was a simple time, long ago, when you saw my wings
as silk and made me a halo of daisies. We were young,
you pressed flowers while I wrote you poetry.

We were young, you pressed flowers while I
wrote you poetry. Line after line of pure emotion you
would never understand. Words you were too innocent
to comprehend, meanings I was just barely corrupt enough
to pen out for the world. You pressed flowers that waited
between pages of stardust for years that later became
decorations for the cover of my novel. The one I dedicated
to you for never being a first, but for loving me enough to
stick around anyway.

Do the dead love?

Is the last kiss
of delight really so
cold to blind,
leave, then save
us all over again.

Do the dead love?

Writing all their secrets down
as tombstones crumble
on top of them yet again.

Darling, do tell me,

do the dead love?