Isn't it sort of silly
to number words
instead of ideas?

She gives the gift of gab!

When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.

My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.

My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.

She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.

She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.

And by God, those eyebrows.

I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.

She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.

I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.

Mostly, I just miss the silence.

No reason to live
without a bit of evil.

There was a child of poetry
Who was struck with no small calamity
The words ran away,
The poet they flayed,
Until came no small charity

The child met with a man
Who had a simple demand
the words go away,
if your passion you will pay,
And yes, I would say that the cart was put quite before the horse, I'm sure you would agree.

If only you were chocolate
you could make my stomach ache
If only you were tea
you could burn my hands as they shake.

If only you were empty like the big old ocean
I could laugh: "There's nothing to see,"
a pleasant conclusion.

The bottom of the mountain is waiting
at the top of the mountain
And home is just over that hill
If more hills are the home you know.

And you will celebrate your birthday this year and next year with the same faces in different places and every time you slow down a little bit.
Which does not necessarily mean you are close to the top.

You know you're *******, through and through
When you try to write a line or two
And find the you you are writing to
Has changed to a you of a different hue.